The Bone Thief (45 page)

Now Wulfgar did look at King Edward. He was watching the scene with veiled eyes and set mouth. He looked down to his side and said something to his son. His wife bent and put her arms around the boy. Wulfgar couldn’t guess at any of what they were saying, as the air was too full of shouts for the Lord and Lady of the Mercians, and the Bishop, and St Oswald.

The Lord of the Mercians turned to lift his hand to first one side of the crowd and then the other. His feet shuffled – he was utterly reliant on the men who were helping him – but there was no doubt that he was standing. He was opening and closing his mouth, too, but no one could hear what he was saying. He was surrounded by hundreds of people who’d served under him for over twenty years, people who had heard only rumours for the last weeks, people who half-believed that he was already dead, that Mercia was about to be plunged back into foreign invasion or worse: civil strife.

Now they had their Lord restored to them. No wonder their happiness verged on hysteria. The man standing next to Wulfgar had tears pouring down his bluff, red face.

But none of the shouts now was for King Edward.

The south door of the church opened, and the glittering procession moving inside.

I ought to be there, Wulfgar thought. But it’s impossible. I can’t get through the crowd in time. I’m filthy, unshaven – the guards here in Gloucester won’t know my face.

And what will I do, anyway? Shout,
That’s not St Oswald?

I can’t do that – not now.

They’ve had their miracle. They’d pull me from my saddle and tear me limb from limb.

So, what? Wait here? Or ride to Kingsholm, and wait there until the Lady comes home?

The crowd surged forward then, avid for a last glimpse of the saint, and Wulfgar found his horse going willy-nilly with their flow. He was less than a dozen yards from the south porch when a hand took hold of his bridle.

‘Wulfgar of Winchester!’

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

HE LOOKED DOWN
in surprise to see a smooth, narrow face, bland light-blue eyes, straw-fair hair with a newly shaven tonsure just visible under a pristine lambswool hood.

Kenelm. The Bishop’s nephew. And, like everyone else in the square, he was smiling.

Wulfgar returned his bow but found a smile harder. He was such a mixture of conflicting emotions – exhilaration, outrage, fear, exhaustion – that he couldn’t speak for a moment.

Kenelm’s own smile began to fade as he looked Wulfgar up and down.

‘One black eye, fading. Unshaven – un
tonsured
, even. Filthy clothes. Filthier nails. And—’ he fingered the hem of Wulfgar’s tunic ‘—is that a
bloodstain
? Wulfgar, what in Heaven’s name have you been doing?’

Wulfgar, still awash with new and unmanageable feelings, couldn’t find an appropriate answer.

‘Getting filthy, as you’ve so astutely observed.’ He tried to soften
the
waspish edge to his voice. It was good to see any familiar face, even this one. ‘Do you know where I could get washed? And find a bite to eat? I need to see the Lady, and I can’t come before her, or your uncle, looking like this.’

Kenelm looked him up and down again.

‘You’re right about that.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I’m lodging at St Peter’s,’ he said. ‘Come back with me? It’s not far, and they –’ he jerked his head ‘– should be in the church for a couple of hours yet. We can drink to the Lord’s restored health. And you can tell me where you vanished to.’ His eyes were eager. ‘You wouldn’t believe the rumours.’

Wulfgar nodded slowly.

Oh, I probably would, he thought. How close are they to the truth?

He dismounted and the two young men walked side by side, pushing their way through the festive crowd, Kenelm leading the way past the south side of the new church.

‘Why aren’t you inside?’ Wulfgar asked. ‘Bishop’s nephew, and all.’

‘Me?’ Kenelm pulled a face. ‘Oh, I’m not important enough, apparently. What with King Edward, and the Bishop of Winchester, and all the West Saxon hangers-on, it seems there’s not enough room.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway,’ he said, looking sideways at Wulfgar, ‘I could ask the same of you. The Lady’s secretary,
and all
.’

Wulfgar slid away from that question. ‘Bishop Denewulf is here, too? I didn’t see him.’

‘He was waiting inside the church.’

Edward’s hearth-retainers had lined up their horses either side of the south door. Wulfgar eyed them without curiosity, until he found his gaze returning with a jump to one cloaked and helmeted figure.

Garmund.

He was sure of it.

And, just as the thought passed through his mind, the man-at-arms spotted him. Their eyes locked. Almost against his will, Wulfgar found himself handing his own horse’s bridle to a startled Kenelm and walking towards the mounted man. The man glanced quickly at the door of the church. Still closed. He swung himself out of his saddle with a creak of leather and a whiff of sweat.

‘Brother,’ Wulfgar said, with more calm than he felt.

‘Litter-runt. What a surprise.’ Garmund’s voice was low, his eyes shadowed by the helmet. The sun shone on his red lips, his white teeth, his black beard, the massive gloved hand gripping his horse’s cheek-strap. ‘She didn’t have you killed, then.’

‘She?’ Gunnvor? The Lady? It took a moment for Wulfgar to understand. ‘No. No, she didn’t.’ The Spider’s wife. He felt light-headed for a moment. Garmund had no idea of how that story had ended, he realised. Indeed, how could he?

‘Are you listening to me, Litter-runt?’

He blinked.

‘Sorry. What did you say?’

‘I said,
good
. Because it’s giving me great pleasure, beating you at your own game. I can do the saint-hunting as well as you. Better, even. And telling my Lord King and his stupid bitch of a sister how badly you failed them. And now I can tell you, too. And see what happens to you, which is an unexpected pleasure.’ He grinned. ‘King Edward’s asked for you back, to face trial in Winchester.’

‘
What
?’ Wulfgar felt the ground shift beneath him. ‘What lies have you been peddling?’

Garmund glanced at the church door again.

‘That’s the beauty of it, Litter-runt. I don’t have to tell them anything but the truth. What a fool you are, to come back to Gloucester.’

While Wulfgar was still groping for an answer, there was a stir in the crowd. One of the other hearth-retainers shouted a warning.

Garmund looked round, swore, and vaulted back onto his startled horse.

Wulfgar snatched his chance to turn away and vanish into the throng of people. The church door had swung open on its massive wrought-iron hinges, but it proved to be a false alarm. No one emerged.

‘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.