The Bone Thief (33 page)

A cackle broke the silence. A woman’s laughter. Then, ‘You mean to tell me,
this
is your band of warriors?’ The laughter broke out again, ending in a fit of coughing.

‘It can’t be.’ A man’s voice, his accent West Saxon, sullen in disbelief. ‘We were outnumbered. Armed men. Not – not
these
.’

Wulfgar could see more clearly now, in the dim glow of the banked central hearth, the only source of light other than the doorway and the high small windows. There was no sign of Garmund. A woman of forty or so, a shawl around her head and shoulders, was standing a few feet in front of them, with a man at her side. He was muddy, blood-stained, unshaven.

‘The one that got away,’ Father Ronan breathed in Wulfgar’s ear. ‘Damn him.’

The woman looked each of them up and down in turn. Her face was set in hard planes, though the beauty that had been there once was still visible in the well-modelled cheekbones and the long line of her neck. She turned to shout at someone at the back of the hall. ‘Where’s that southron? I want him.’

‘Still out on the hunt, lady.’ Another servant came forward, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘He and his party went north, up the roadway.’

‘Send after him. Keep these under guard until he gets here.’ She pushed past them.

‘Keep them in here, shall we?’ Their guards sounded at a loss.

‘Why not? Don’t touch their kit. Don’t touch them, unless they try to run. It’s all to wait for
him
. That’s what he said.’

So they waited.

Prickly with nerves at first, moment by moment expecting disaster, it was clear by the time the sun had moved round to shine into the doorway that this was going to be a long wait. At first the three of them were kept standing, huddled together, but by midday their four guards had relaxed enough to allow them to sit and doze, backs against the wall; to eat a little dry bread; to be taken one at a time outside to relieve themselves. If they tried to talk, though, there was a rough command and the butt-end of a spear thrust menacingly in their direction. But no one tried with any conviction. Ronan slumped against the wall, eyes closed. Ednoth, white-faced, twisted the leather strap of his now useless sword-belt, back and forth, over and over. The sunlight inched across the floor as though the whole building were a giant mass-dial, waiting for the hour of Garmund’s return.

Wulfgar had all the time he wanted, now, to look around the inside of the Spider’s hall. Smoke-darkened plaster, tiled floor. Chickens wandering in from the sunny courtyard. Woven hangings along the walls, telling alien tales, with unreadable figures in dull reds, blues and greens. Flies buzzing in the rafters. No fragment remaining of an altar, or a shrine, but scars in the tiles marked where they once had stood. Without those, would he have known it had ever been a church? He squinted at the space above the south door where he would once have expected to see the image of St Oswald.

And he was there. Wulfgar had to cup his hands around his eyes to block out the light, but when he did so he could make out two faded, painted figures: a king to the left, a bishop to the right. The king was armed with sword and shield, and at first he thought the bishop too was carrying a shield. But, no, it was a great platter.

And then Wulfgar remembered how Oswald had broken up the silver dish he was eating from and given it to the poor at his gate, and how Aidan of Lindisfarne had praised him for it, holding up the king’s right hand:
May this arm never wither!

And it never had. Even now (men said) that right arm – enshrined in silver at Bamburgh in the distant north – had never lost its freshness.

He took a deep breath. My Lord and Saint, he thought. You were so valiant in life, fighting so hard to bring light in the darkness, to create holy spaces in which men might talk with God. And in death you were so foully treated, your body torn apart by pagans on the battlefield, and then your bones forced into hiding here at Bardney. And now – oh, my Lord, what have I done? Given you into the care of a couple of unbaptised women and sent you off …

But you’re
safe
, he thought. And they’re
safe
. He heard again the thud of hooves in his memory, fading away as Gunnvor and Leoba, with her children and her precious bundle of bones, had galloped up the hill. Had anyone followed them? He hadn’t seen anyone go after them. Their captors had had no horses, after all.

If they had been allowed to talk, he would have liked to share some of the stories of St Oswald with Ednoth and Ronan. And he still longed to hear that song about St Oswald and his raven, the one that Ronan had mentioned. But their guards were bad-tempered, and Ednoth, like Ronan, had nodded off now. Wulfgar
himself
had never felt so tired, and yet so far from sleep. He daydreamed instead, spinning visions of a Bardney reborn, clerics returning – maybe even monks, one day, if true monks ever came back to the English kingdoms – and himself masterminding a glorious ceremony of cleansing and reconsecration, bringing the light back to the dark places …

It was a long, long dreary day.

As the light through the door began to slope from the west towards the chancel, the Spider’s wife started coming back, snapping at her slaves, striding in for no apparent reason, as abruptly turning and going out again into the yard. By the time, at last, they heard the noise of men and horses in the yard, her feverish impatience was testing everyone’s nerves to breaking point. The doorway darkened.

‘I hear you’ve some good news for me?’

Those smooth tones had to belong to Garmund, though the newcomer was no more than a bulky shape against the light in the doorway. Wulfgar sat up straighter.

‘These are what you want,’ the woman said. ‘My men brought them. Do you want them killed?’ She gestured at her men. ‘Get them on their feet.’

Garmund took a step or two into the hall.

‘What’s the hurry?’ He looked at Wulfgar, a disbelieving smile breaking across his strong, dark features. ‘Well, well, well.’ He turned back to the Spider’s wife. ‘I’d like to know what they can tell us, first. If they’ve not got what I want, they can tell us where they’ve stashed it.’

‘
First
, my money. Or you’re not going anywhere.’

His smile widened. He spread his hands. ‘Of course. A moment.’

He stepped back outside and could be heard giving orders. When he returned, he said, ‘Three of my men dead. One of yours. This is turning into an expensive game. But I’ll pay you what I promised, all the same.’

A man came in then, carrying a sturdy leather bag in each hand and handed them to Garmund.

‘Thirty pounds.’ He hefted the bags, which gave forth a faint, inviting jingle. ‘Seven thousand, two hundred silver pennies. Fresh from the mint, with the king’s name on every one. I’ve tallied them. Do you want to?’

‘You promised me fifty.’

Fifty pounds. It was a fortune, and not a small one. Wulfgar thought bitterly of the five pounds his own cheese-paring masters had offered to poor Thorvald.

‘And you’ll get the other twenty, lady. But I’ve not got them with me. You know I’m not authorised to hand over the rest till we’ve got the relics home and the bishop’s given them his seal of approval. Those were our terms. Don’t you trust me?’ He was still smiling, teeth white in his beard. He chinked the bags again. ‘You should know by now you can trust me.’

Where have I heard that sort of intimate, coaxing tone before, lately? Wulfgar wondered. Oh yes, I know – the Atheling’s voice, a long week ago in Worcester.
Bishops, even. There aren’t enough bishops in Mercia
. I should never have let the Atheling beguile me, any more than the Spider’s wife should be putting her faith in Garmund now.

But the Spider’s wife seemed cannier than Wulfgar, unwilling to take Garmund’s word for anything. She received the proffered bags warily, one at a time, weighing each one in her hands and frowning. ‘Bring me a blanket.’ She emptied the first one of its
clinking
contents and did a quick reckoning of the coins, biting a few, holding others up to the light for scrutiny, a disconcerting mixture of scruple and haste.

‘Aye, that’ll do, to be going on with,’ she allowed at last. ‘I’m guessing you’ll find your bones in their baggage. They’re muddy enough.’ She coughed again.

‘Haven’t you
looked
?’ Garmund’s voice cracked, showing impatience for the first time. ‘You’ve had all damn day.’

She shrugged.

‘I don’t know what to look for, you told me that. I’ve not touched them, or their gear. Just like you said.’

Garmund, tight-lipped, looked first down at the pile of silver, and then over at the stacked saddle-bags, and finally at Wulfgar. Their eyes met, and locked.

‘You,’ he said. ‘Get me the relics. Come on, I’m in a hurry. You’ve either got them with you or you’ve hidden them somewhere.’

Wulfgar felt a hard coal of slow-burning anger ignite in his belly. So that’s why we haven’t been killed, yet: Garmund thinks we might have had time to hide the relics somewhere, in the night, out in the marsh. He doesn’t want to kill us before he’s made absolutely sure of getting his filthy hands on them.

‘Relics?’ he said to Garmund.

‘St Oswald. I know you’ve got him. I saw that dirty great hole you left in the churchyard.’ He jerked his head at the bags. ‘I’m not grubbing through your stinking flea-ridden linen. You do it.’

Ednoth made a strangled noise.

Garmund shot him a glance.

‘I’ve seen you before,’ Garmund said, ‘and you didn’t impress me then, either.’

‘Why should I do what you say?’ Wulfgar asked. It was as
though
they were taking up their positions for an old, old dance. Who was going to be the first to crack, to go running to the grown-ups?
Fleda, Garmund hit me
…

‘Because I’ll kill you if you don’t.’

‘But you made out you were ettling to kill them anyway,’ the Spider’s wife said.

Garmund smiled again.

‘I thought they might be more dangerous than this. But once we’ve got the relics we could let them go. What do you think? They look harmless enough to me.’ He flashed a contemptuous smile at Wulfgar.

‘Kill them,’ she said, stubborn as ever. ‘Tip them in the marsh. Who’s to know? I want them got rid of. I don’t want word getting back to my man.’

Garmund turned to Wulfgar again.

‘Go on, Wuffa. I’m getting bored with this. Get me the relics.’

The onslaught of so many eyes came as a physical shock.

‘
Wuffa
?’ Ronan said in disbelief.

‘You know this man?’ The Spider’s wife sounded equally taken aback, setting the empty money-bag back down. Her gaze flicked from Garmund to Wulfgar and back again, narrowing with sudden suspicion.

Garmund, smiling, said, ‘What’s the matter, Wuffa? Embarrassed?’

This is my chance, Wulfgar thought. Yes, you great bully, I am embarrassed. But not for the reasons you think. Not because your mother was one of my father’s field-slaves. But because you’re a cruel, power-hungry, self-seeking sycophant. He opened his mouth to say as much, but he was too late.

‘I’ll tell you, then,’ Garmund said, ‘since he’s too mealy mouthed. I’m his brother.’

‘
Brother?
’ Ronan mouthed at Wulfgar.

‘You might have told me, at Offchurch.’ Ednoth’s tone was savage, as if he had encountered betrayal.

‘Yes, what
were
you doing at Offchurch, Wuffa?’ Garmund asked. ‘Other than spoiling my fun? I thought you’d grown out of that, Litter-runt, but you’re still at it. Get the relics, and I’ll let you go.’

‘Do it yourself, why don’t you?’ But he muttered it below his breath, and he knew the answer: Garmund doesn’t want to go on his knees like a slave, rummaging through our bags in the sight of his men. If he can force me to do it, why, so much the better. And let’s give him a little credit – he might not want to risk touching the relics with those corrupted hands of his. We went to the same school, after all; he knows those cautionary tales of men struck down by saints they’ve insulted, in the midst of their strutting and bragging, just as well as I do.

He took a deep breath.

What on earth do I do now? St Oswald, come to our aid … But the formal phrases appropriate to prayer were driven out of his head at the sight of Garmund’s knowing smirk. St Oswald, he thought wildly, please help me. Or he’ll kill me. And the others. He really will, this time. No one will ever know what he did, or what happened to us.

St Oswald, I’ve seen you into safety. Now it’s your turn.

And he knew what to do, then, as though the saint had breathed in his ear.

Lifting the bulkier of the rolls of sacking with as much reverence as he could muster, he got to his feet, his soul welling over with a profound gratitude to the saint. Now all hung on how thoroughly Garmund had been briefed, what he expected to see …

He reached in, half-pulled out a femur, and said, ‘Here.’

‘What?’

Louder: ‘Here you are!’

‘Give them to me.’

‘
Bones
?’ the Spider’s wife said in disbelief. ‘All this for
bones
?’

Wulfgar tried to hand Garmund the sack but he flinched away.