The Bishop of Winchester stirred in his seat.
‘Nefas est sacras reliquias vendere,’ he intoned. ‘It is absolutely forbidden to sell sacred relics.’
Or to buy them, for that matter, my Lord Bishop, Wulfgar thought. But I don’t see Garmund standing on this mat.
The Lady held up a hand again, in mild reproof.
‘All in good time, my Lord of Winchester.’ She looked at Wulfgar again. ‘You have heard the charges. This casket contains a holy relic, a bone of St Oswald, whom you have also wronged. Do you lay your hand upon it and swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, knowing you invite damnation if you lie?’
But it doesn’t, he thought in a blur. Contain a relic, I mean. It can’t. Not of St Oswald. It must be a bone from the monk of Bardney. Dizzy, he found himself stepping forward, resting his hand on the casket, swearing a meaningless oath. No, not meaningless, he realised. Invalid, perhaps, but heartfelt for all that. If he swore by St Oswald, and meant it, then surely the oath had meaning. And who knew but that brother of Bardney was one of God’s many, many nameless saints, whose holiness was only known in Heaven? Better to assume virtue, he thought, sanctity, authenticity. He bowed his head.
The Lady spoke again. ‘How do you plead?’
Wulfgar lifted his eyes to hers. The hall was silent. He searched her face for some sign that she knew the truth, but she was pale, her lips set, apparently implacable. Surely, he thought, his Lady could do better than this. What were her instincts telling her? He took a deep breath.
‘Not guilty, my Lady. Not guilty to any charge.’
She was the first to look down.
The buzz of chatter in the hall died away as the steward called, ‘Garmund, also of Winchester, called Polecat. You are summoned to bear witness. Please take the oath.’
And suddenly Garmund was standing there, not next to him but an ostentatious ten feet to his right, as though any closer contact would contaminate.
‘My Lord and King, my Lady, my Lord Bishops.’ He bowed and stepped forward to lay his hand upon the shiny box. ‘I do so swear.’
‘The full oath, please.’
He swore again. Did his voice waver? Was there a hint of anxiety in his eyes? None that Wulfgar could detect.
Certainly, when he began his story, his voice was clear and confident.
‘I first travelled to Bardney, with great hardship, in the dead of winter, on my Lord King’s errand, arriving there on the Feast of the Holy Innocents. There I spoke with the wife of the Dane who holds Bardney. She is an Englishwoman and a Christian. She was overjoyed by our coming, and she gave us leave to return and search for the relics of the Most Holy Oswald.’ He bowed again. ‘It had long been in my Lord’s mind that the relics would be a fitting gift to the Lord and Lady of Mercia, on the completion of their new church.’
The Lady was smiling, Wulfgar saw to his horror – smiling at her brother and holding out her hand for him to take.
Garmund paused, waiting for them to finish their tender fraternal moment.
‘When the earth softened, after Easter, I returned as planned. I was warmly received by the Lady of Bardney. She fed me and my men, and bade us rest, but in my eagerness to find the resting-place of the saint I asked her to take me out in the churchyard, with a lantern, as by then darkness had fallen.’
Wulfgar wondered whether this farrago of truth and lies had been composed by Garmund himself. He always had had the knack of sounding plausible when up in front of authority.
‘To our horror,’ Garmund went on, ‘we found Wulfgar and his band of desperate hired ruffians digging illicitly in the churchyard. I challenged him, and he set his men on me and the Lady of Bardney. I shouted to summon my own men and there was a battle. Before making good his escape, Wulfgar had killed three men of Wessex and one of the Bardney servants.’ He paused again. Muted but disbelieving uproar in the hall.
‘Did you pursue them?’ the Lady said, leaning forward.
Was this whole story new to her, Wulfgar wondered, or had she heard the outline, but not the details?
Garmund shook his head in sorrow. Wulfgar could see he was enjoying himself hugely.
‘We were outnumbered, and afraid. We had our injured to tend to. And we did not realise until daybreak that he had made off with the relics.’
‘And then?’
‘They sent us a messenger at dawn. In return for the silver that we were bringing for the Lady of Bardney – and I must stress that this silver was a gift, and a token of our respect and thanks for her hospitality, and in no way a payment for the relics – Wulfgar and his gang would sell us the bones of the Most Holy Oswald.’ Garmund raised his eyes to the roof-tree and looked suitably outraged. ‘What can I say? We were shocked and saddened by the sacrilege. But the Lady of Bardney said, and I could only agree, that we should see the money as a ransom, and its payment as a pious act. We duly exchanged the money for the priceless bones, and I returned to my Lord, King Edward, who was then in Oxford, arriving there last Friday. Overjoyed by the news, full of love for his sister, he commanded us to travel to Gloucester at once.’ He turned then to look at Wulfgar. ‘I never thought you would have the nerve to show your miserable face in Gloucester again, let alone at the sacred ceremony for receiving the relics.’ Garmund shook his head sadly. ‘Oh, Wulfgar, my brother, what would our father, God rest his soul, have said?’
‘Have you quite finished?’ There was an impatient edge to the Lady’s voice that gave Wulfgar just a flutter of hope.
Garmund turned back to her and bowed once more.
‘Only this, gracious Lady of Mercia, that the hardships, deaths and injuries we underwent were incurred in your service, and we would gladly have undergone twice what we did to give you joy.’
Wulfgar could feel his heart pounding and the blood burning in his face. His hands were shaking. It was rage, but he knew it would be read as guilt. He tried to smother his emotions but he could feel them like charcoal, smouldering at his core.
I’ve killed one man, he thought, and I tried to kill another, but I didn’t hate either of them as much as I hate Garmund and Edward right now. Queen of Heaven, he prayed, forgive me my anger. Help justice to be done.
The Lady’s teeth were worrying at her lower lip.
‘And when Wulfgar sold the relics to you, did he know that my brother the King planned them as a gift to me, that the relics would be coming to Gloucester anyway?’ She glanced at Wulfgar then, scanning his face, looking puzzled rather than angry.
Garmund shook his head.
‘Oh no, my Lady. In fact, from what he said I am quite sure that Wulfgar wanted the bones to go to Winchester.’
Wulfgar opened his mouth in furious indignation but the steward quelled him with a look.
The Lady winced. ‘And who can swear to the truth of your story?’ she asked.
Garmund gestured behind him to his troop. ‘Twelve witnesses.’
‘That’s more than the law requires,’ Edward said, ‘for any crime.’
‘But none of them is a Mercian.’
No, my Lady, Wulfgar thought, that won’t hold water, you’re grasping at straws there.
‘All men of sworn standing in Wessex, my Lady,’ Garmund said. ‘My Lord King himself can vouch for them.’
The Lady looked at her brother.
Edward nodded.
One by one, Garmund’s oath-swearers came forward and rested their right hands on the reliquary. With every name, every repetition of ‘I do solemnly swear, as I hope for salvation …’, Wulfgar could feel his chances dwindle. It’ll be exile, he thought. And confiscation. He thought about the box he had entrusted to Worcester’s sacristan before setting out with Ednoth, so full of hope. His books – would she really take those from him? And the silver brooch her father had given him?
He closed his eyes. If she didn’t trust him any longer, then he didn’t care where he went, or what he did.
He was still Gunnvor’s thrall, he rememb
ered. And if his property were confiscated by the court he would have nothing left to repay her with. He could hear her voice now: I’ll keep you to sit at my feet and teach me English love-songs of a winter evening.Singing with Gunnvor, and serving at Father Ronan’s altar in his little Margaret-kirk. It wasn’t the future he had planned, but he could imagine worse.
‘Wulfgar!’ The Lady sounded really angry this time.
He blinked.
‘I’m sorry, my Lady.’
‘Have you an answer to these charges?’
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
‘MY LADY, MY Lord King, my Lord Bishops.’ Wulfgar took a deep breath and bowed. He wasn’t going to let Garmund outdo him in courtesy, and it gave him a moment to collect his thoughts. There was still that hot fire of dark red anger in his belly, but he noticed that his hands had stopped shaking. ‘I have good news for my brother and his men.’ A rustle of interest in the crowd behind him. ‘They have committed perjury – a grave enough sin – but they have not imperilled their immortal souls.’
‘What?’ The Lady sat up.
‘And for the same reason, my oath is void.’
‘Explain yourself.’ Her voice was terse but her face told another story.
‘That box does not contain a bone of St Oswald.’
‘Nonsense! What are you talking about?’ This from Denewulf of Winchester, watery blue eyes narrowed in annoyance. ‘I chose it from the relics and placed it there myself for the Kingsholm chapel.’
Wulfgar turned to his former superior and bowed, hand on heart.
‘With all love, my Lord, you have made a mistake. The bones that Garmund took from Bardney, that were placed in the church yesterday, are not those of St Oswald.’ His eyes met those of the Bishop of Winchester and held them. He said softly, ‘They are the remains of a brother of Bardney who died no more than thirty winters ago.’
‘What did you say?’ It was the King, this time.
Wulfgar repeated his last sentence, word for word, in a steady, carrying voice.
Uproar followed from the hall behind. Bishop Denewulf was leaning forward, wagging a finger, trying to make himself heard above the commotion. King Edward had masked his mouth with his hand, his narrowed eyes flickering back and forth between Wulfgar and Garmund.
And now the Lady was on her feet, holding her hands up, quietening the hall by sheer effort of will. She turned to her steward, attentive at the side of the dais.
‘Clear the hall. We will hear this case in camera.’
He came forward, thumping his iron-tipped staff.
‘Everybody out! Witnesses for the prosecution, you are reminded not to leave the palace courtyard. We may need to call on you again.’
Garmund turned to leave, but the steward called him back with a summary command. Wulfgar used the hiatus to recruit his thoughts into some sort of order. He had the Lady’s attention now. But he had to regain her faith.
She raised her eyebrows at last.
‘We are listening.’
He nodded.
‘Yes, my Lady.’ Think. Think, he told himself. Choose every word with care. ‘Garmund’s story does have some truth in it,’ he said slowly. ‘He was already in negotiation with Bardney on King Edward’s behalf, unknown to us. He rode there with those men whose oaths you have taken, and their arrival coincided with mine. He did indeed negotiate to purchase the relics from the Lady of Bardney – and I stress the word purchase. But who was the true guardian of St Oswald? Not she, my Lady. She didn’t even know the saint was there, and she was no daughter of the Church. The true guardian was Thorvald, reeve of Bardney, grandson of the last sacristan of the shrine. He chose the Bishop of Worcester as the best person to receive the relics, and it was Thorvald, God rest his soul, who guided me to the saint’s haven.’
‘God rest his soul?’ Bishop Werferth’s voice was sharp.
‘Thorvald was slain, my Lords, my Lady, by one of Garmund’s men.’ Wulfgar closed his eyes briefly. ‘In turn, I killed that man, in an unsuccessful attempt to save Thorvald’s life, and I have confessed that killing and been absolved.’
The Lady looked at her brother. ‘Killing the reeve was not in Garmund’s tale.’
Edward shrugged. ‘It’s hardly germane.’
‘By your leave?’ Wulfgar asked.
She nodded.
‘The saint had been hidden thirty years ago in what was at that time a new grave. In the dark we could not distinguish St Oswald’s bones from those of the Bardney brother who had been buried there. We took them all. Garmund’s men attacked us without warning as we were escaping Bardney. We got away from them and sorted out the bones, but we were captured. Two of our party escaped with the true relics, and we fobbed Garmund off with the other bones.’
A screech of protesting wood sounded as Edward pushed his chair back.
‘Rubbish. A mish-mash of lies. Bishop Denewulf has verified the bones.’ He turned on the Bishop of Winchester. ‘You swore they were the real thing.’
Bishop Denewulf nodded. ‘And the old reliquary, my Lord King. Don’t forget that.’ He smiled. ‘That’s proof.’
Wulfgar shook his head. ‘No, my Lords. I’m very sorry. Those pieces of wood belong with the saint’s true relics, not with the bones Garmund brought you.’
The Bishop of Worcester steepled his fingers, tapping tip against tip, his good eye squinting balefully at Wulfgar. ‘Then,’ he asked, ‘where are these true relics?’
‘Yes,’ the Lady said slowly, ‘where are they?’
Garmund couldn’t contain himself. ‘My Lords! My Lady! You heard my men’s oaths? You’ve seen the relics! How can you doubt me?’
Wulfgar’s hand had gone to his breast in a familiar gesture, but he remembered even as he did so that the relics were no longer there.
He had entrusted them to Kenelm.
Kenelm.
Where was Kenelm?
He was by my side, Wulfgar thought wildly, when I was arrested. He said he wanted to be my friend. But he kicked me at Vespers, he remembered. His heart seemed to stop. Had Kenelm betrayed him, too?
‘Where are the true relics?’ the Lady repeated.
‘We should send to St Oswald’s Church,’ the Bishop of Worcester said. ‘Bring the reliquary here.’ He snapped his fingers for the steward. ‘That may establish part of the truth.’
‘Wulfgar?’ the Lady said. ‘To whom did you give the bones?’
‘Kenelm has them,’ he said in a very small voice.
Bishop Werferth turned from his muttered conversation with the steward.
‘My sister’s son?’
Wulfgar nodded. ‘He was with me when I was arrested. We were bringing the relics to you, my Lord.’
‘This is farcical.’ King Edward was really angry now. ‘Who is this Kenelm? Wulfgar has no witnesses. My man has twelve attested oath-swearers and the Bishop of Winchester himself to vouch for the worth of my gift.’ He was rattling his fingers on the table; and Wulfgar thought, he always did hate looking a fool, even more than most of us.
‘You’d better be telling the truth, Wulfgar,’ Bishop Werferth said, ‘or you’ll pay for dragging my family’s name into this unspeakable mess.’ The steward was summoned forward again by a wave of the Bishop’s bony, ring-laden hand and ordered to send men out to look for Kenelm.
‘Now what?’ Edward said. He stood up and began pacing up and down behind the high table, and Wulfgar was suddenly, forcibly, reminded of the Atheling. The cousins might look so different but there was something akin in them that transcended the physical: that restless appetite for action, that need to control, which Wulfgar found so alien. The King turned suddenly to lash out at the flinching Denewulf of Winchester. ‘You said you had no doubts! You were full of praise for Garmund! Now what, Bishop? Still no doubts?’
The Lady, ignoring his outburst, said, ‘Now we wait.’ She looked down at her folded hands, then, unfolding them to grip the edge of the table under its white linen, she said, ‘Edward, as a matter of interest,
why were you going to donate the relics to Gloucester?’ Her voice was calm, almost casual, but Wulfgar observed the slight hunching of her shoulders. He also registered the tense of her question. Not why did you … but why were you going to … He felt a sudden rush of hope.
She was still speaking: ‘Why not keep them for Winchester? For the cathedral? Or your own new church? The great saint of the English!’ She half-turned in her seat to look up at him. ‘Why do you care for me so much, all of a sudden?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Fleda!’ Irritation riddled the King’s voice. ‘Don’t pretend to be so naïve. If I’m to rule Mercia as well as Wessex, I need the Mercians to love me.’
‘Rule? Mercia?’
Her brother didn’t seem to notice the shock in her voice.
‘Of course rule Mercia. It’s been such a messy, de facto arrangement for the last twenty years or so. Typical of Father. It’s time to sort it out, now that the Old Boar’s on his death-bed. When he dies I’ll take over de jure as well.’
‘He may not die. We had a miracle yesterday, if you remember’ The chill in her voice now made Wulfgar think of the three-year winter that would herald the Last Judgment.
Edward made an impatient gesture. ‘He’s an old man. One way or another, he’ll never be well again.’
‘So Mercia will be taken over?’ she said slowly.
Edward nodded.
‘It’s only common sense. We’ll absorb Mercia into Wessex. As Kent has been. Sussex. And then I’ll be able to take an army against the Danes in East Anglia …’ He smiled and pulled out his chair to sit down next to her again. ‘All the English peoples will be united in the end, Fleda. Under one king. One law. Mine.’ He was still smiling. ‘You’re in safe hands.’
The Bone Thief Page 34