The Bone Thief

by V. M. Whitworth

  ‘I don’t know what to make of you, Englishman. Do you have a name?’

  ‘Wulfgar,’ he said. He thought it better not to mention Winchester.

  Toli Silkbeard put out his hand.

  ‘Wulfgar. Ulfgeir, eh? Is that right? Spear of the Wolf?’

  If he makes a joke about my name, Wulfgar thought, I’ll, I’ll – what, exactly?

  But he didn’t.

  Warm in the lamplight, red lips smiling, Toli Silkbeard said, ‘Ulfgeir the Lordless, friend of Athalvald inn hungrathr and friend of mine, you are always welcome in my courts.’

  On his way out, the little book clutched to his heart, Wulfgar stole another look at Eirik, only to find he himself was still being watched from those deep-set sockets. Wulfgar was frightened to the marrow. But it was the Atheling’s message that was lodging now in his conscience like a fishbone in his throat. He wondered what on earth the Atheling was planning for All Hallows, and what it was that his own bearing of the message had set in motion. What had Toli Silkbeard called the Atheling? Athelwald the Hungry? Oh yes, it suited him all right.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  WULFGAR MADE HIS way out through the gates of Toli Silkbeard’s outer stockade, elated to have escaped with his prize and his skin intact, but rendered slightly hysterical by his encounter with the young Jarl, and more than a little drunk. What was he going to say to the other two? How was he going to explain the little gospel-book, which he was still clasping to his breast like a lover? The morning had vanished somehow; the sun was high now over the bustling streets. He was disoriented; when the port-reeve had brought him on that forced march through the streets he had paid no attention to their route. But Silver Street ran obliquely downhill, and down seemed the most likely way back to the harbour.

  He wanted to avoid the market. The last thing he needed was another run-in with that aggrieved stall-holder, especially as he didn’t trust Toli to honour the debt. Or worse, another encounter with Fur Hat. But every path he tried seemed to lead that way. He ended up turning uphill again in a great curve that took him west, almost all the way back to the ford where the Fosse Way came into the town, before dropping him back down to the riverside. The ford was bustling with traffic.

  Among the ox-carts and the mules, something about the way one grey horse lifted her feet high out of the water, and the spear-straight back of her hooded rider, caught Wulfgar’s eye. The horse-woman was no more than a couple of dozen yards away when she turned her horse’s head, shortening her reins as she did so and shrugging her hood back onto her shoulders to reveal her unveiled hair. It was a gesture he’d seen before, and committed to memory.

  Without thinking, he hailed her.

  ‘Gunnvor Bolladottir!’

  Their eyes met.

  She raised her eyebrows and trotted up the last few yards to his side, little bronze bells tinkling against the red leather of her harness. A couple of horsemen followed her a discreet length behind.

  ‘Ha! The saint-hunter! I thought I might have to hunt for you all the way to Bardney.’

  ‘Ssh!’ He glanced around. ‘No, we stayed here last night.’

  ‘Ronan must have ridden you hard.’ She leant down from her saddle and offered him a hand. ‘Come up on my pommel?’

  He blushed furiously and shook his head.

  ‘I’ll walk.’

  ‘Then I’ll walk with you.’ She jumped down from the saddle in a flurry of skirts. ‘What are you hiding?’ She put out her hand and touched his hand where he still clutched the little book under his tunic.

  He flinched away from her.

  ‘Something – something to show Father Ronan.’ His treasure had been mocked enough for one morning.

  She shrugged.

  ‘Any luck in finding your man with the bones? What was he called? Thorvald?’

  ‘No, not yet, unless Ednoth and Father Ronan have had more luck.’ He felt hot under the collar, but she wasn’t even looking at him. Some of the traders along the foreshore were trying to get her attention, calling her by name, and she raised a hand in greeting.

  ‘Not buying, not today, lads!’

  They were almost at the inn now, and Gunnvor looked approving.

  ‘Best wine in Lincoln. Trust a priest.’

  Wulfgar wondered what he would say to Ednoth and Father Ronan, but there was no sign of them. Gunnvor left her men to oversee the stabling of her silver-grey mare next to Fallow. Wulfgar noticed with a pang that his poor little Fallow looked stumpier and squatter than ever in that elegant company.

  ‘Come in with me?’

  They were hardly through the door, however, when they heard Father Ronan roaring in the yard.

  ‘I know that mare! Gunnvor Bolladottir! What the hell are you doing in Lincoln? Whom did curiosity kill? Eh, lass? Answer me that!’

  She turned back out through the door, and Wulfgar followed helplessly.

  ‘And why shouldn’t I be in Lincoln? I’ve a house here, business interests here – as you know full well.’ She shrugged. ‘I thought you would be pleased to see me?’ From another woman it might have sounded flirtatious. She quirked her eyebrows. ‘I might even be useful.’

  ‘Have you been looking for Thorvald, Father?’ Wulfgar was anxious to deflect any questions about his own absence.

  ‘Putting word about,’ Father Ronan said. ‘Luck may be with us. Someone thought your man was in town to see Eirik – we’re told Eirik’s in attendance on Toli Silkbeard at the moment, so we’ve been stepping softly. The last thing we want is it getting back to him that outlanders have been asking questions about Bardney and his reeve. But if word reaches Thorvald he’ll know to come here.’

  Wulfgar swallowed uneasily, afraid that he might confess to having met Eirik the Spider already. He had to learn to control his tongue.

  ‘Shall we have something to eat?’ he asked quickly. ‘Before we go on looking?’

  Father Ronan grinned and pointed to Ednoth sitting on a bench in the yard.

  ‘Your lad here has been talking about nothing but food since sunrise.’

  They sat in the courtyard eating barley-bread and bean broth and more soft new cheese. Father Ronan borrowed a table game-board from the ale-wife and started teaching Ednoth how they played in Leicester.

  ‘But this way anyone who starts on King’s Side is going to win,’ Ednoth complained. ‘It’s not fair.’

  Father Ronan caught Wulfgar’s eye, inviting laughter.

  ‘But how like life! No, you see, if you start King’s Side—’ He began rearranging the counters.

  ‘Was someone asking for me?’

  They all turned and saw a slight, russet-clad figure, hesitating by their bench.

  ‘The ale-wife said –’ he frowned, looking from face to face ‘– she said someone was asking—’

  Father Ronan rose to his feet

  ‘Is it yourself? Thorvald, Reeve of Bardney? Here’s a sweet piece of luck! Put the game away, lad.’

  Thorvald looked to be in his late twenties, already greying, with weathered skin and tired, blood-tinged eyes. Wulfgar offered him his hand but the newcomer didn’t take it.

  ‘How do I know you are who you say you are?’ he said. He looked from face to face, a muscle jumping in his cheek. One of his front teeth was badly chipped.

  Wulfgar groped down the neck of his tunic and pulled out the Bishop’s ring. Unknotting the thong he slipped it off and passed it across to Thorvald.

  ‘The Bishop of Worcester gave me this a week ago. He told me you’d recognise it.’

  Father Ronan whistled.

  ‘Now there’s a pretty thing.’

  Thorvald turned it over in his hands.

  ‘Yes, he’s right. I remember this on his finger.’ His eyes met Wulfgar’s and he passed the ring back to him.

  Wulfgar was about to put it away, when Father Ronan asked, ‘May I …? Is it …?’

  Wulfgar nodded.

  The priest closed his eyes and pressed it to his lips before passing it bac
k.

  But Gunnvor reached out a hand.

  ‘A pretty thing, indeed,’ she said.

  Reluctant, Wulfgar let her take it. She lifted it to her mouth and for a moment he thought he’d been misjudging her. But, no, she was baring sharp, white teeth, ready to bite.

  He snatched it back.

  ‘Just assaying the gold,’ she said, ingenuous.

  ‘Stop teasing him, woman,’ Father Ronan said.

  Retying the thong with more knots than it really needed, Wulfgar said to Thorvald, ‘Do we trust each other then?’

  ‘What choice do we have?’ He glanced around the courtyard and out through the gateway towards the wharf. ‘Go in, shall we? You never know who’ll tattle, and the Spider’s in Lincoln at the moment.’

  Wulfgar bit his tongue.

  They ducked under the reed-thatch, away from the wind and prying eyes. Thorvald was acting like a horse who smells smoke, nostrils flared, the whites of his eyes showing startled in the gloom. That muscle in his cheek jumped more quickly than ever. He found them a dark corner, away from the barrels and the hearth.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting … I don’t know what I was expecting.’

  ‘Take your time, man,’ Father Ronan said. ‘You’ve kept this secret a long time; it can wait a little longer if it needs to.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘But it can’t. Ever since I told the Bishop—’ It was warm and stuffy inside the inn but he had kept his cloak on and his hood half up around his head.

  Curious, Wulfgar asked, ‘When did you tell the Bishop?’

  ‘A while ago.’ His face drew in. ‘She – Eirik’s wife – sent me down till London at ploughing-time, on business. And I heard that the Bishop was there. I went to see him, in his muckle great house by the river?’

  Wulfgar frowned, nodding.

  ‘The Bishop leases a lot of the waterfront there,’ He said. ‘But this must mean he knew about St Oswald’s survival for – what? Something like two months? – before he decided to act.’ He shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘Two months of tenterhooks for me,’ said Thorvald.

  The memory of Eirik’s skull-face hovered before Wulfgar’s eyes. He thought of being Eirik’s man, being subject to the Spider’s will day in and day out, and he shuddered.

  Thorvald caught his eye and nodded. There was a moment’s silence. Then he said, ‘If you’re going to trust me, I’d maybe best tell you how I know where the saint’s hidden.’

  There was a general murmur of agreement.

  He closed his eyes and pressed his hands together for a moment; Wulfgar thought he might be praying.

  Then Thorvald took a deep breath.

  ‘The minster of Bardney died in a single night some thirty years ago. The way my mother told it, we were rich, some three hundred folk – lay and learned – serving our saints. We’d heard there was a lot of bother around, but we’re almost an island, cut off by fen, and we thought we were safe. Then the Great Army came.’

  He fell silent briefly, and when he spoke again the words came tumbling out. His accent was getting thicker; Wulfgar had to grab each word as it came.

  ‘My grandfa’ set the wake over the saints’ shrines; that night he was doing it himself. He must have told me the tale a hundred times. They came by water, on a night with no moon. They surrounded the stockade and fired it in a dozen places at once. They broke in and fired the thatch on the out-buildings. They waited by the doors and ran our people through as they came running out—’ He broke off again. ‘I wasn’t there, you know. I wasn’t born. But it feels …’

  ‘I know how it feels,’ Father Ronan said. ‘We understand. Go on.’

  Thorvald shrugged.

  ‘There’s not much more to tell. They got to the kirk last – it’s in the middle, in a garth of its own. My grandfa’ was no gawby. He’d heard the screams and smelt the reek. He got the shrine open and took the inner kist out. Three foot long, and made of wood. He’d have to stow it in the gainest place. Another of his jobs was to make the graves. He’d buried one of the brothers only the last week. The earth he’d back-filled the grave with was still claggy.’

  ‘You’d have us credit none of the raiders noticed the grave had been disturbed?’ Father Ronan asked. ‘I don’t doubt your tale, but …’

  Thorvald shrugged again.

  ‘It was dark. My grandfa’ said we were like swans who wouldn’t leave their clutch, we were giving them all the trouble we could. And there was loot everywhere. They didn’t have to go digging for it. And by sun-up they’d gone.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Abbey and outbuildings burned, stock they hadn’t rounded up slaughtered. My grandfather counted two hundred corpses, men, women and beasts. The shrines were smashed and ransacked, and about fifty folk unaccounted for. The oblate boys had been taken, and the young servants, male and female.’

  ‘But your mother and your grandfather survived?’ Ronan was frowning.

  The reeve nodded.

  ‘After he’d buried the saint grandfa’ grabbed Mam and rolled with her under a thorndyke on the edge of the bone-garth, clapped a hand over her mouth, and they stayed there till it was all over. She was na but a bairn then. Not a hero’s doing, maybe, but they lived, didn’t he?’

  ‘Hero enough for me,’ Father Ronan said.

  ‘So where are the relics now?’ Ednoth said. He looked Thorvald up and down as if he thought the little man might have the bones stowed under his cloak.

  ‘Who are you? I know he comes from the Bishop,’ jerking his head at Wulfgar, ‘but who are the rest of you? Who’s she?’

  The reeve was so nervous that Wulfgar was astonished he’d ever had the courage to approach the Bishop.

  ‘We’re all your friends,’ Wulfgar said. ‘Ednoth’s here to help me. Ronan’s a priest, and a Mercian, and …’ He ground to a halt.

  ‘And me?’ Gunnvor’s eyes were gleaming with a mischievous light.

  Yes, Wulfgar thought. What about you? Why are you here? Fair questions, but he didn’t dare to ask them, and he wasn’t sure he would like the answers.

  Gunnvor looked at Thorvald now. ‘You really don’t know who I am? Gunnvor Bolladottir?’

  He shook his head.

  She shrugged, amused. ‘You must spend a lot of time mired in your fenny fastness, Reeve of Bardney.’

  Wulfgar felt it was time to change the subject. Father Ronan had brought the saddle-bags in, and Wulfgar opened one up and brought out the Bishop’s bag of silver.

  ‘Here’s your money, if that makes you feel any better.’

  ‘It’s not just the money,’ Thorvald answered, peering into the bag. He looked up at Wulfgar, gnawing his lip. ‘Five pounds, yes, he promised me, but also safe conduct for me and my family, and a place on Worcester lands.’

  ‘Safe conduct? Family? Land?’ Wulfgar could feel his jaw dropping. ‘The Bishop never said …’

  ‘That’s what the Bishop said to me.’ Thorvald’s thin face was set. ‘Think on – why did I tell him now about my saint? My son. Having a son.’

  Wulfgar nodded.

  ‘Then that’s what we’ll do.’ He hoped he sounded as though he knew what he was talking about. In his short encounter with Eirik he had learned everything he needed about why Thorvald wanted to raise his boy far away from Bardney.

  ‘Do you mean we’ll be fleeing Eirik with a pack of bairns bealing and yammering?’ Gunnvor asked.

  ‘Who’s this we?’ Father Ronan asked her.

  ‘As if you could do it without my help,’ she said, lifting her chin defiantly.

  Thorvald had folded his arms across his chest.

  ‘I’m asking no more nor less than what the Bishop promised me. There are only two. Bairns, I mean. Small ones. We’ll see they’re kept quiet.’

  Gunnvor snorted.

  ‘You’d better. You’re not wanting us to rescue your old mother as well?’

  He shook his head. ‘Mam’s been gone these three years. It’s only my wife and my bairns.’ He weighed the b
ag of silver in one hand, chewing the inside of his cheek, and then he handed it back to Wulfgar. ‘You hold it safe for me. I trust you if you’re the Bishop’s man.’

  Wulfgar about to protest but in truth he was deeply moved. He stowed the bag away.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Wulfgar asked. He found Thorvald was still looking at him, and realised that he was the one making the decisions.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Can you bring the relics to us here?’

  Thorvald shook his head at that. ‘It’s not a job for a man alone. Two to dig and one to stand watch, at least.’

  The others were still waiting.

  ‘So, we have to come to Bardney’ Wulfgar said. ‘All of us, I suppose.’ He tried to think. The smoke was making his eyes water. ‘Road or river?’

  Thorvald was still shaking his head. ‘Too many people around. Even Eirik, maybe.’ He bit his lip and thought. ‘You’ll have to come through the fen. There are causeways. Do you have horses?’ At Wulfgar’s nod, he said, ‘Leave as soon as you can, by the muckle south road. It climbs south of the river. Once you’re on top, there’s a track east that takes you three miles across the heath.’ He paused to see if they were taking in his words. ‘Follow it right till the fen-edge, look for the sheep-cots. That’s best. My wife and bairns are there already, for the lambing. Leave the horses there. Wait there while the moon rises and I’ll meet you and guide you across.’ He stood up, swathing himself in his cloak.

  ‘Wait a minute, Thorvald,’ Ronan said. ‘What’s your wife’s name?’

  ‘Leoba.’ An Englishwoman, then. Or at least a woman with an English name. Wulfgar had a hundred more things to ask him.

  A sudden flurry of activity over by the main door made Thorvald look up and flinch back at once into the corner, jerking his hood further over his face.

  It was Toli Silkbeard.

  And his men.

  And Eirik the Spider.

  Wulfgar’s first thought was that they were after him.

  And the second, hard on the heels of the first, was that they were looking for Thorvald.

  But they weren’t. Of course they weren’t. What was the point of being rich and young and well-dressed if you couldn’t strut and crow on your own little dung-heap?