‘Ednoth of Sodbury, this is the judgment of the court of Mercia. Your family has failed in its most sacred duty. The Bishop will tell you the cost of masses for your dead, and the penance for your sins. I see your father’s wergild is two hundred shillings, and I would ask the Bishop to bear that in mind when assessing compensation.’
A satisfied growl from the Bishop.
But she hadn’t finished.
‘However, you keep the land.’
Ednoth whooped with delight.
What an arrogant young fool, Wulfgar thought. Didn’t he care if he alienated the Bishop?
But the Lady smiled at the young man.
‘We need loyal friends like your kin down on the Wessex border.’
A triumphant grin spread across Ednoth’s face, reflected in the growing murmur of support from the floor.
‘The bond in this will has outlived its purpose. Justice and common law dictate the terms be changed to an annual rent of fifteen shillings. Wulfgar, have you noted all that?’
He nodded.
‘Enough. Let us adjourn for the feast, and the most solemn celebration of Easter. On Monday we reconvene, and, God willing, the Lord of the Mercians will be back in his chair.’
Ednoth raised a clenched fist in triumph, turning from side to side, playing to the crowd.
‘I cannot allow this judgment!’ The Bishop was on his feet now. ‘Fleda, this is – Wulfgar, give me that will.’
Wulfgar clutched it to his breast, looking at the Lady. But she seemed to have forgotten about him. She swept around the screen, back to the antechamber, head held high, women flocking in attendance. Ednoth had already vaulted over the low rail that edged the dais, straight into a mob of whooping, back-slapping friends.
‘Court dismissed,’ the steward shouted.
Already the big doors at the far end were opening; the noisy factions of thanes and their kin, the gildsmen, the law-suitors, their witnesses and hangers-on, were collecting their weapons and heading out into the dark with their heavy burdens of gossip for the inns and hearths of Worcester.
She’s done it, he thought. She’s made them accept her in the judgment seat. Now we’ve a few days’ grace to celebrate the Resurrection of our Lord – and perhaps that of the Lord of the Mercians as well. He looked up and blushed to encounter the Bishop’s furious, one-eyed stare.
‘That’s it,’ the Bishop said, ‘I’m going to send him with you.’
Wulfgar blinked.
‘Who, my Lord?’
‘The Sodbury brat. His penance. Let him go hunting St Oswald, and much good may it do him.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Don’t you? Two birds, one stone. You need someone to watch your back. He may not be loyal to me, but he’s loyal to Mercia. He’ll do.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Maundy Thursday
IT WAS A cold, bright morning, the rising sun glancing off the weathercock on the cathedral’s north-eastern tower, frost still lingering on the shadowed side of the roof. Jackdaws tumbled and soared around the cathedral towers, their shrill caws echoing off the white-plastered stonework.
The day of betrayal, Wulfgar thought. Judas slipping away from the feast to alert the soldiers. St Peter’s heartfelt avowals of loyalty to his Lord, vows that were shattered before the cock had crowed three times. How could do they do it? I could never break my oath. Tears pricked his eyelids.
Wulfgar had sent a slave to collect his clean linen; he had his wax tablets and his belt-knife. He had asked the keeper of the cathedral’s treasure-house to guard the box which held his little treasures: a little pile of books, his precious ivory styli, and the silver brooch the old King had given him on his ordination. No further prevarication was possible. He had to see the Bishop, and then he would need to set off on this frightening journey. There was no sign of young Ednoth, the boy from Sodbury, who had been so full of himself in the court, and whom the Bishop had chosen as his companion. Wulfgar wasn’t sure if he was relieved or sorry. The young man hadn’t seemed a likely ally.
‘Hey, Wulfgar!’ The voice came from one of a small mob of young clerics heading towards the cathedral. He half-turned towards them, despite not wanting to hear anything they might have to say.
‘Did you ever hear the story about the West Saxon who went into an ale-house and asked for a yard of ale?’
‘Aren’t you coming to Matins?’ another shouted.
He flinched, turning away again.
‘I’m in a hurry. I’ve got an appointment with the Bishop.’
‘With the Bishop,’ another mimicked, sing-song and spiteful. ‘You think you’re so important, don’t you?’
‘No, I—’
‘So the ale-wife says to the West Saxon—’
He walked away, stumbling slightly on the frosted cobbles in the cathedral’s shadow, trying not to hurry, ignoring the burst of laughter. He was still rattled by the Bishop’s anger last night over the Lady’s judgment. He didn’t want to provoke him further by being late now.
When the Bishop’s door-ward announced him, he found the old man at his writing desk. The day’s brilliance had penetrated even this dim room, the shutters standing ajar to admit long lances of light, falling across the notes and tablets on the Bishop’s writing desk, including the sheet of parchment he was currently reading. The Bishop was alone.
‘Look at this, Wulfgar,’ the Bishop said, without looking up. He flipped the edge of the page with an irritated finger.
It wasn’t the welcome he had expected. Where was, Hail, my young hero! God speed you on your quest!
‘What is it, my Lord?’
‘A report from the visitor I’ve sent round the uplandish minsters. He tells me – well, read for yourself.’ The Bishop pushed the letter at him.
Wulfgar scanned the scrawl.
‘Halfway down the page,’ the Bishop said. ‘About Diddlebury.’
‘Ah, yes.’ His lips shaped the words as he read. ‘“As I reached the minster of St Peter in Diddlebury, I found a baptism in progress. To my horror I heard the priest announce, ‘Ego te baptizo in nomine patriae, et filiae, et spiritus sancti.’” What? The Fatherland and the Daughter, instead of the Father and the Son?’ He frowned, interested now. ‘But if it’s just an honest mistake – a priest with inadequate Latin and no heresy intended – canon law states that the baptism should be valid, surely? Doesn’t Pope Zachary write that—’
The Bishop grunted.
‘Oh, the baptism is valid enough.’ He rubbed a hand across his brows. ‘But the Latin – inadequate is putting it mildly. It wouldn’t be so bad if this were an isolated incident.’
Wulfgar nodded, agreeing but still puzzled.
‘But, my Lord, why are you showing this to me, not one of your own staff?’
The Bishop growled, and then said, as though it were being dragged out of him, ‘We’ve no one else in Mercia with your kind of scholarship. It seems we have need of you.’ He brandished the letter.
Wulfgar tried to resist a smile. So, the Bishop did value him, despite all the evidence to the contrary. He wished Kenelm had heard his uncle’s admission. Belatedly, he realised that the Bishop was still speaking.
‘A task for when you return.’
‘Return? Oh, Bardney.’
‘Indeed,’ the Bishop said. ‘Bardney Abbey. What a tragedy.’ He rubbed at his empty eye socket. ‘I remember it well, in its glory days. On an island, surrounded by fen. Now the stronghold of a heathen called Eirik, known as the Spider—’
There was a thumping knock at the door.
Wulfgar jumped.
‘Enter.’
Two armed men, framed by light, entered, thrusting a grubby and rumpled Ednoth of Sodbury between them. Wulfgar’s nostrils twitched at the penetrating fumes of stale wine. A third man reached in to dump a bulky bag inside the door, its half-open flap revealing a glimpse of purple-stained leather straps, decorated with silver-gilt roundels. The boy’s sword-belt, no doubt, and the rest of his
gear.
‘Good. Put him over there.’
The young Ednoth stood just inside the door, looking like thunder.
‘Where was I?’
‘Eirik the Spider, my Lord,’ Wulfgar said, startled and distracted.
‘Ah, yes. His reeve – a man named Thorvald – contacted me in February. He claimed that his mother’s father had been the guardian of the shrine—’
‘But Thorvald’s a Danish name,’ Wulfgar said, unable to stop himself, still rattled by Ednoth’s sudden appearance.
‘Oh, yes, his father was a Danish soldier. But his own loyalty is to his saint, he tells me. His grandfather entrusted him with the secret of where the relics lie. This Eirik has no idea – he is rarely there. His wife runs the estate. Thorvald’s price is five pounds in silver. Under no circumstances will you let him know the true worth of the relics. We don’t want him inviting other offers.’
Wulfgar blinked.
‘Other offers, my Lord?’
The Bishop snorted.
‘Name me a bishop in Wessex who wouldn’t break half the commandments to have Oswald King and Martyr in his church. That jumped-up swineherd, Denewulf of Winchester, for one. But I’ve no cause to think he’s on the scent.’
Wulfgar, bridling at the insult to his old superior, couldn’t restrain himself any longer.
‘But, my Lord, canon law forbids – nemo martyrum mercetur—’ His bravado stuttered to a halt in the face of Bishop Werferth’s unwavering glare.
‘Don’t tell me how to do my job, subdeacon.’ The Bishop’s mouth twitched.
Are you laughing at me? Wulfgar thought.
‘Shall we say that Thorvald is giving us a present, and we’re giving him one in return? No marketing the martyr there, eh? No nefarious haggling? So you can stop pulling that face.’ He sighed. ‘It’s a dirty world out there, Wulfgar. Not everyone can afford the luxury of a conscience as freshly fulled and bleached as yours.’
Wulfgar nodded, shocked and unhappy. It wasn’t a matter of conscience, but a matter of canon law, and the law could hardly be clearer. He could hear his uncle lecturing on the subject even now: ‘Nefas est, the clause says, sacras reliquias vendere – translate, Wulfgar?’ And his own voice, piping: ‘It is absolutely forbidden to sell sacred relics.’
He came back to the present moment with a frown. Absolutely forbidden – and the Bishop knew it as well as Wulfgar did himself. Wulfgar glanced at Ednoth, but the boy was still staring at the floor, brows knitted and lower lip jutting. No help from that quarter, but he hadn’t really expected any.
The Bishop tugged the largest of his massive rings over a bony knuckle. He held it out to Wulfgar.
‘This will serve as your passport. Thorvald knows it. Take good care of it. My steward will find you two horses and some supplies.’ He unlocked a small chest that stood by the side of the desk, and removed one weighty and one smaller leather bag. ‘Thorvald’s five pounds. Another pound for travel expenses. I’m being generous. Don’t let the Danes cheat you – but you speak Danish, you should be all right.’ He locked the chest again. ‘When you have the relics, bring them straight down to Gloucester, to the royal palace at Kingsholm.’
So, the Lady had won that battle. Wulfgar felt a little smile tugging the corners of his lips upward.
‘Yes, my Lord. Gloucester, my Lord.’
‘Don’t smirk. It’s revolting.’ The Bishop reached out his claw-like hand to grip Wulfgar’s own with astonishing power. He looked more like a fierce bird of prey than ever. ‘Bring him back to us. And hurry, boy. Your precious Lady can’t hold Mercia on her own. She’s mad to think she can. But with St Oswald at her side, she could bring the most rebellious thanes to heel.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’ He had clearly been dismissed. But he had to ask. ‘Does – does the Lord of the Mercians still live?’
The Bishop released his hold. He seemed to sag suddenly.
‘If you call it living.’ He turned then and looked at Ednoth. ‘Young man, this pilgrimage is your penance. Your job is to guard Wulfgar and support him in all he does. When you return with the saint, then we will see about re-admitting you into the communion of Holy Church. Until then, be warned. Your soul is in mortal peril.’ He snorted. ‘And much you seem to care. Wulfgar, take that stinking boy outside, get on your horses, and go.’
Wulfgar bowed his head for the old man’s rapidly sketched blessing.
As soon as they were outside, Ednoth burst out, ‘How can you stand it?’
‘What?’
He shivered violently, like a dog shaking dirty water from his fur.
‘Don’t let him know the true worth of the relics,’ Ednoth mimicked savagely. ‘My father warned me the Bishop was out to cheat us. I didn’t realise he was out to cheat everybody.’
‘Were the Bishop’s men rough with you?’ Wulfgar asked, concerned.
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Did they hurt you?’
The boy shrugged, half-turning away.
‘It was my idea to come.’
Wulfgar, feeling snubbed, kept his doubts to himself. He unclenched his fist and looked at the Bishop’s ring in his palm. Greek work by the look of it, a heavy gold band, its chunky filigree setting holding a blood-coloured carnelian. Far too big for his finger, or even his thumb. He would have to find a spare thong and tie it around his neck.
‘My uncle never gave you that?’ It was Kenelm who had approached unseen, light-blue eyes avid with curiosity.
Wulfgar instinctively looked around for the rest of the Deacon’s gild-brothers, but Kenelm seemed to be on his own.
‘It’s a loan, that’s all,’ he told Kenelm.
‘It’s a reliquary, you know.’
Wulfgar looked at it again, and shook it. A faint rattle answered him.
‘Who’s in there?’ He felt very moved by the Bishop’s trust. He lifted the ring to his lips, kissed it, and whispered, I’ll take good care of you.
Kenelm shrugged, tight-lipped.
‘Why should I tell you? Go back in and ask him yourself if you want to know.’
Wulfgar looked at the ring.
‘I don’t need to know.’
He wished Kenelm would go away. He didn’t really want anyone to witness him trying to get onto a horse, let alone one of his fellow clerics who would be only too happy to tell the others what a spectacle he had made of himself.
The stable-lad led out two horses. Fallow and Starlight, he told them. Ednoth looked them up and down, and pulled a face.
‘Do you want the gelding or that funny little mare?’ he asked Wulfgar.
Which was which? Wulfgar wondered.
‘I’ll have the little one, the brown and white one,’ he answered, after a pause. He tucked the ring away in his belt-purse and strapped the bags of silver behind his saddle before leading the mare over to the mounting-block and putting a tentative foot in her stirrup-loop.
Ednoth had already swung himself into the saddle, ignoring the block.
‘Which way?’
‘Where are you going?’ Kenelm asked, his eyes narrowing.
But before Wulfgar could respond to either question, there was a flurry of movement at the gateway.
‘Wulfgar!’
It was the Atheling, riding in with a couple of men-at-arms at his back. He was dressed for hunting, with a hooded gyrfalcon perched on his wrist. Fallow took a couple of startled steps backwards, and Wulfgar found himself having to hop foolishly, one foot still in the rope-loop.
‘Wulfgar!’
Had the Atheling come to wish him farewell? It seemed unlikely, and yet he came straight over, without ceremony, leaving his escort at the gate, swinging out of the saddle in one fluid movement, the huge bird still gripping his glove. She gave a great beat of her powerful, silver-grey wings, more than a yard in span, and Wulfgar flinched despite himself.
‘I was afraid you might have gone already,’ the Atheling said. The stable-lad ran up to hold his gleaming mount, at which
Ednoth gazed open-mouthed.
Wulfgar stepped back down from the mounting-block, one hand still on Fallow’s reins. He found the Atheling taking his other arm, drawing him aside, speaking fast and low.
‘Things are changing so fast, Wuffa, here and in Wessex. You’re right at the heart of things here. What do you think is going to happen?’
Wulfgar was taken aback by this friendliness. No one in Mercia called him by his boyhood pet-name of Wuffa, little wolf-cub. Not even the Lady – not anymore. What was going on?
‘I – I don’t know, my Lord. I’m only the secretary.’
‘Only! I’ll wager you hear everything. Go on. I want to know.’ The gyrfalcon gave a sudden shake of her head and another shiver of her wings, setting the bells on her jesses tinkling. The Atheling gazed fondly at her. ‘She’s eager to be flown.’
Wulfgar was finding it hard to refuse this intimate, smiling pressure. Hoping to deflect the conversation, he, too, stared at the beautiful, ferocious bird. He realised he recognised the hood, with its tuft of colourful feathers.
‘Is she yours?’ he asked. ‘Doesn’t she belong to the Lord?’
The Atheling shrugged.
‘He has no need of her at the moment. Answer the question, Wuffa.’
Wulfgar swallowed.
‘The Lady will take over until the Lord recovers.’
‘Recovers? You really think …?’ The Atheling let his voice trail away delicately.
‘There is precedent. Even if –’ he crossed himself hastily ‘– even if the Lord dies. Mercian history is full of ruling queens.’ Astonishingly so, to someone from Wessex.
‘Queens regent, yes. But this one’s no Mercian, not by birth.’ The Atheling shook his head, his glossy dark hair glinting almost chestnut in the sun. ‘And it’s not as if she’s keeping the throne warm for an heir.’
‘She’s a Mercian now,’ Wulfgar said stubbornly.
The Atheling sighed.
‘Forget Fleda for a moment.’ His voice softened further. ‘Would you rather see me or my dear cousin Edward in the high seat of Mercia when you get back?’
Edward, rule Mercia? Wulfgar’s heart faltered. When he looked up again the Atheling was looking into his eyes intently.
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