‘Who was that?’ Kenelm asked, agog.
‘My brother.’
‘Your brother? I didn’t know you had a brother.’
He nodded, his thoughts racing. ‘Two. And a sister.’ What in Heaven’s name am I going to do now? he wondered. I can’t go to the Lady if Edward’s going to ask her to arrest me.
And, he thought, will she even want to see me? What has Garmund told her? She must be thinking of me with – well, with what? Disappointment? At the very best. He wondered what lies his half-brother had been spreading – that Wulfgar had been killed? That he had failed in his quest? Or – and his heart stopped – that he had betrayed her?
Yes. That last. That would be it.
Wulfgar the traitor.
That would be his story.
Oh, what a sorry contrast I must make to Edward, her beloved brother, and Garmund, his trusty servant, coming to her rescue like the Hand of God. She thinks she’s got the relics; she thinks the story’s over. She’ll be ready to hand me over to Edward, without listening to a word I have to say.
He swallowed the misery and the rage he could feel ready to build in his throat.
But surely Garmund must know he and Edward have fobbed the Lady off with fakes? Oh, he thought with disgust, but that would just add to the pleasure he’s patently taking in the whole sorry tale.
And – with a chill – now that Garmund knows I’m here, he’ll want to find out whether I still have the real relics …
He’ll be after me.
He turned to Kenelm, finding a smile at last from somewhere, false and strained across his face.
‘Can I stay with you tonight? And maybe you could tell me what the rumour-mill has been grinding out?’
‘Aren’t you going to the feast at Kingsholm?’
‘I’m in no mood for it. Don’t let me stop you, though.’ He ran through the conversation with Garmund again in his head. Something was niggling at him but he still couldn’t put his finger on it.
Kenelm raised his eyebrows.
‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’ He put his head on one side and smiled his crooked smile. ‘I know we started off on the wrong foot, but I would like to be your friend, Wulfgar.’
Wulfgar, already sad and weary beyond expression, found it even harder then. I need a friend in Gloucester, he thought. But are you really someone I can trust? Slowly, he said, ‘Kenelm, can I tell you a story?’
The other man’s face lit up. ‘Are you going to tell me where you’ve been?’ he asked.
But the story had to wait. After Wulfgar’s welcome encounter with a bucket of hot water and a linen towel, he rolled the relics in his cloak and left them with his saddle-bags while their hosts escorted them to Vespers in the ancient church of St Peter’s. Aching and distracted, Wulfgar found it hard to stay awake.
There was a beautiful cycle of wall-paintings on the opposite wall, and his eyes kept drifting back to three images in particular: Christ entrusting St Peter with the keys of Heaven and Hell; St Peter’s denial of his Lord, his stricken face turned away from the curious maidservant, and the cock crowing; and, finally, the story only found in St John’s gospel, of Christ telling St Peter, ‘Feed my sheep’.
St Peter had been a coward, and a liar, and he had abandoned his Lord and friend in His hour of greatest need. And yet, somehow, he had been forgiven. Wulfgar’s hand groped for the little gospel-book in its bag around his neck.
After Vespers, they were invited to share the canons’ meal in the refectory. While Kenelm joined in with the gossip along the table as vigorously as any of them, Wulfgar drifted in and out on a tide of weariness, overhearing snatches of conversation as he cradled his horn beaker of damson beer.
‘I heard he had been earmarked for Pershore …’
‘You wouldn’t believe the amount of honey the estate has to pay …’
‘Well, he claims she’s his wife …’
‘No, no, he’s gone to Evesham …’
Trying to show willing, he asked, ‘Who’s earmarked for Evesham?’
A dozen faces gaped at him. Eventually Kenelm said, ‘Edwin. The Lord’s old secretary. The man whose job you’ve got.’
A young priest snorted.
‘The man whose job we all wanted.’
Wulfgar hoped the firelight hid his blushes.
‘Yes, I remember …’
They all stood for the closing grace.
Finally they had a quiet moment. Wulfgar and Kenelm huddled by the banked hearth in the hall while their hosts snored around them. Wulfgar opened his bundle, spread the dry, brittle contents out before Kenelm’s disbelieving eyes. He told him the bare bones of the story. He watched disbelief slowly change into wonder and acceptance. He saw Kenelm’s hands tremble as they touched the relics, and Wulfgar knew he had found somebody who, for all his shortcomings, felt the power of the saint as forcefully as he did himself.
‘But – the miracle … the Lord was healed …’ Kenelm’s voice died away.
‘St Oswald was there, remember,’ Wulfgar said. ‘Just not in the reliquary, where everyone thought he was. If there were a miracle, he was responsible.’
Kenelm nodded.
‘But why did my uncle choose you to go, and this boy – this Ednoth …?’ Kenelm’s voice tailed away, but Wulfgar saw his lips tighten.
‘He must have thought we’d do the job—’ Wulfgar saw something flicker in Kenelm’s eyes. ‘Oh, when he could have asked you, you mean?’ He sighed. ‘I was on hand, that’s all.’
Kenelm glanced sideways at Wulfgar and seemed on the brink of speech, but he closed his mouth again and turned his gaze back to the mound of glowing charcoal.
‘What is it?’
Kenelm smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
‘It’s – Wulfgar – I’m sorry I kicked you at Vespers, the other evening.’
‘What? Oh, at Worcester, you mean?’ It seemed a lifetime ago. ‘It was on purpose, then?’
‘I’d just come from a meeting with my uncle—’
Wulfgar held out his hand. ‘Thank you. Now, forget about it. We all do childish things sometimes.’
Kenelm’s fair skin flushed as he took the proffered hand. ‘Childish – yes, I suppose I deserve that.’ He squinted at Wulfgar. ‘You – you seem different, somehow.’
‘Grubbier?’ Wulfgar, gritty-eyed, stifled a yawn.
‘No, it’s changed you, what you’ve done. Look at what you’ve achieved!’ Kenelm gestured at the little pile of bones, heaped on the sacking.
Wulfgar nodded, a thrill going through him at the other man’s words. This is what I had been hoping for … I may never get any public recognition, but at least Kenelm knows.
‘It wasn’t just me. I couldn’t have managed without Ednoth, although he could be really annoying. Too young to know any better. And Ronan – Father Ronan – I wish you could meet him. He doesn’t look like a priest at all, big and burly, with a pied beard like a badger’s pelt and no tonsure, but I’ve never met faith like his …’
‘Who did you say his bishop was?’
‘I didn’t.’ Wulfgar frowned for a moment. ‘I’ve no idea, now you mention it.’
‘And you never thought to ask?’
Wulfgar shrugged. ‘Other things seemed more important.’
Kenelm raised his eyebrows but said no more on the subject. ‘And your brother? That big horseman? Will he be at Kingsholm?’
‘Half-brother.’ Wulfgar nodded, feeling the familiar shiver in the small of his back. ‘And he’ll be after me, now he knows I’m here in Gloucester and I can prove the relics they’ve brought are fakes. He’ll want to make sure I’m kept quiet.’ He hugged himself. ‘And he’ll probably guess I’ve got the true bones. He’ll want them back. What do I do now?’
Kenelm looked anxious. ‘I believe your story, Wulfgar, but I don’t think I can help you. I wasn’t there. You need Ednoth, or that priest of yours. Without them, it’s your unlikely story against the King’s very plausible on
e.’
‘No.’ Wulfgar knew he looked grim. ‘It’s more than that. It’s St Oswald, against a pack of lies.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
‘WE MUST GO to the Bishop. Now.’ Wulfgar stood up. ‘If you can believe me, then maybe your uncle will.’
‘Now? It’s not even dawn yet. Wouldn’t we be better getting some sleep?’ But Kenelm’s yawn was unconvincing.
‘Now.’ Wulfgar was already reaching for his cloak. ‘We owe it to the saint. But I’ll go on my own if I have to.’ He ached in every bone. He made for the door as Kenelm got awkwardly to his feet and followed him slowly.
The street was cold, the sky above clear, but the stars were paling and a greying in the east showed where the night was coming to its close. The first cocks were crowing.
‘I just want all this to be over.’ He felt as though his soul were floating somewhere above his body, a body that was slow-moving and clumsy. He tripped over a pile of kindling that had been stacked just inside the gate and only Kenelm’s quick snatch at his arm saved him from going headlong.
‘You do look tired. Would you like me to carry the relics for a bit? It would be an honour …’
Wulfgar pulled away, out of reach, as though Kenelm had threatened violence.
‘No! They’re not heavy, just awkward—’ He stopped and looked at the other man’s face. ‘Sorry.’ Trust had to start somewhere: why not here? He unfastened the pin at his throat and shrugged his cloak back over one shoulder. ‘Here.’ He pressed his lips to the improvised sling and held it out to Kenelm. ‘That goes over your head, and your arm through – that’s it.’
The two clerics moved quietly through the sleeping town, Kenelm’s face shining, his arms hugging his body, his steps careful. After the great events of yesterday, the festivities had lasted late into the night and there would be more than one aching head in Gloucester that morning. From behind a set of shuttered windows the sound of a baby crying reminded Wulfgar of little Electus, whose very existence had slipped his mind for the last few hours. How could he have forgotten about his own godson? Another reason to hurry to Kingsholm. That woman – was she honest? Was she kind? She had looked it, but how could one be sure?
They were at the city gates now. The guard stirred at the sight of them and unlatched the little wicket gate to let them out. So, we don’t look like trouble, Wulfgar thought. I don’t look like a killer, or a thief, or a wanted man.
They walked through the dewy fields, the hedgerows alive with birdsong and the fluttering of wings. Despite the dawn chorus, Wulfgar could hear his heart thudding in his breast.
‘The Bishop will be at Matins,’ Kenelm said. ‘We can wait for him outside the chapel door.’
The palace courtyard was barely recognisable from the previous day, when it had stood so empty. Despite the early hour, it was buzzing with horses and rumpled soldiers, yawning women carrying jugs of beer, scrambling dog-boys and turnspits.
The two clerics were admitted through the main gate without question, and nodded towards the chapel.
‘Come for the service of Thanksgiving, have ye?’ The guard was bright-eyed for all the early hour. ‘Best shift yourselves. They’ve been singing their “Te Deums” since first cockcrow.’
They were at the chapel’s very threshold when Wulfgar stopped. A shift of the pattern, and suddenly the meaning he had been seeking was clear to him.
‘He didn’t know.’
‘What?’
‘They don’t know.’
Kenelm stared at him.
‘Garmund, and King Edward. And Bishop Denewulf,’ Wulfgar explained, to himself as much as to Kenelm. ‘They don’t know that the relics they’ve brought are false. If they knew—’ He stopped and shivered.
Kenelm stared at him.
‘If they knew what?’
‘Garmund would have grabbed me yesterday, if he thought for a moment the real relics were still out there. They think they’ve brought the true relics to Gloucester.’ He put his hands to his eyes. Which was riskier? To connive in their unwitting fraud? Or to unmask the King of Wessex and the Bishop of Winchester as gullible fools? He groaned. He was right, he had to be. Garmund would never have exuded that well-fed, smug air if he had had a clue that Wulfgar had outwitted him.
‘Master!’ Suddenly a slave-woman was at his elbow. ‘Such a lovely baby, bless him. Suckling like a lamb! Shall I keep him by me today as well?’
He blinked at her, his thoughts miles away. ‘Baby?’
‘Aye, master, you left him with me yesterday.’
‘Oh, that was you, was it?’ Both Kenelm and the woman were staring at him now. ‘Yes, please do. Thank you. Bless you.’
‘Baby?’ Kenelm asked tentatively.
‘Did I not say? My godson.’ He moved his fingers to his temples. They hurt. Why, in the name of Heaven, if King Edward thought he had the true relics, would he give them away?
The sun was lifting clear of the horizon, flooding the courtyard with light. The white-plastered boards of the chapel were suddenly dazzling. A door opened up like a dark hole in front of him.
‘Wulfgar!’ a voice said.
And another voice shouted over the first one, ‘Arrest that man!’
He was face to face with Edward, King of Wessex.
Cold blue eyes, narrow and intent; a thin, bony nose; an abrupt and haughty gesture of the head – Wulfgar remembered how Edward had always reminded him of a bantam cockerel. He also remembered why the Litter-runt jibe always stung so much: Edward had never been any taller than Wulfgar was himself.
‘Arrest him!’ came the shout again, from somewhere in the courtyard. He turned to see whose the accusing voice was, but the sun was right in his eyes.
‘Take him in charge,’ the King said.
The whole royal party was in the courtyard of a sudden, with both the bishops, and a bevy of attendants. How had so many people packed into that tiny chapel? Wulfgar felt his elbows seized. No, not the whole party.
Miracle or no miracle, there was no sign of Athelred, Lord of the Mercians.
His Lady was in front of him now. He had imagined this reunion so many times, but he had never couched it in these terms: her mouth a set line, her brows narrowed, cheeks pale, sea-grey eyes remote and cold.
‘We will go to the hall,’ she said. ‘Bring him to us when we command.’
‘My Lady—’ But she had turned on her heel and was walking away in a sweep of white and silver.
‘Don’t look so worried, Litter-runt.’ Garmund was leering at him at him, and Wulfgar realised whose voice it had been, shouting for his arrest. ‘They won’t hang you, worse luck, not for this. It’ll be exile. You can scuttle back the far side of Watling Street where you have so many new friends.’
‘What did you tell them?’ Wulfgar’s voice was no more than a rasp.
‘What?’
He tried to clear the frog from his throat.
‘About what happened at Bardney? What do they think happened, Garmund? The bishops, and King Edward. And – and the Lady? What did you tell them?’
Garmund grinned again and tapped his index finger against his nose.
‘Me to know and you to find out, Litter-runt. And you will. Find out, I mean.’ He looked past Wulfgar to the guards at his elbows. ‘Tie his hands.’
Wulfgar closed his eyes.
‘Garmund, is that really necessary?’
‘It might be a long wait, Litter-runt. They’ll be preparing your trial. We don’t want you overpowering your guards and escaping, do we?’ The men standing round found this much funnier than Wulfgar did. Sycophants, he thought. But that means they think Garmund is someone worth flattering. He must be doing very well under Edward.
But the summons came before the rope.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
WULFGAR HAD BEEN cherishing the faintest of hopes that the meeting might be no more than an informal debriefing with the Lady. That hope died as he was jostled into the hall.
This had all the tra
ppings of a formal trial.
The Lady sat in the place of honour in the middle of the high table, under the embroidered red cloth. King Edward was placed on her left. The Bishops of Worcester and Winchester, still vested for Mass, flanked them. A small wooden casket decorated with silver-gilt plaques stood on the table before them. The Kingsholm steward, tall and grey-haired, holding his staff of office, was there at one end of the dais. Clerics and hearth-retainers and the Lady’s women were lining the walls, but Wulfgar was only mistily aware of their presence.
The four pairs of eyes at the high table watched his approach.
Wulfgar looked at each face in turn as the guards propelled him up the length of the hall, past the cold, scoured hearth-place. The Lady had no expression at all. Edward’s thin face looked, if anything, amused. Denewulf, Bishop of Winchester, looked like an old sheep, but Wulfgar hadn’t served in his cathedral for more than fifteen years without learning that a lot went on behind that bland, bell-wether façade. And Werferth of Worcester? A thunderstorm, ready to break.
A small rush mat stood below the dais, in front of the Lady’s chair. He was frog-marched to it, and the guards took a step back and to the side. He felt very small.
The doors opened again, and he heard the sound of many feet pounding on the boards. Half-turning, he saw Garmund marching towards him at the head of a dozen or so men. Was it the same troop he had with him at Offchurch, and at Bardney? Wulfgar didn’t recognise any of their faces, but then, why would he?
‘Answer when you are spoken to!’
Wulfgar nearly jumped out of his skin. It was King Edward who had shouted, in that booming voice that belied the King’s slight build.
More gently, the Lady said, ‘Wulfgar of Winchester?’
He tried to speak, nodded instead.
She raised a hand. ‘Proclaim the charges,’ she said.
Somewhere behind him, the familiar voice of the steward said, ‘Wulfgar of Winchester, you are charged with the following crimes against the King of Wessex, against the Lord and Lady of the Mercians, and against your Saviour in Heaven. Firstly, that you did hinder Garmund, servant of King Edward, in carrying out his duties, and precipitate an attack on him and his men. Secondly, that you yourself were responsible, directly or indirectly, for the deaths of three of those same men. Thirdly, that you did, in flagrant contradiction of your clear orders, procure for yourself the sacred relics of the Most Holy Oswald and then sell them to the aforesaid Garmund for thirty pounds of silver coin, which you kept as private profit.’
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