Authors: V. M. Whitworth
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 bag 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?
Silkbeard and his friends came barging in, scabbards swinging and cloaks swirling, shouting for wine. And then he saw Gunnvor.
‘Gunnvor Bolladottir! By the Spear, why didn’t you let me know you were honouring my town?’
They were coming straight over.
Gunnvor rose at once and went to forestall them, putting on a good show of eagerness. ‘Toli Hrafnsson!
Herra!
We only arrived today. What’s new? Who’s in town?’ This was another new Gunnvor, sparkly, demure, resting her hand delicately on Silkbeard’s arm, looking up at him from under her lashes. He was evidently dazzled. Wulfgar felt the rustle of rough cloth against his arm and half-glimpsed a shadow slipping past him. It was Thorvald, hood up, dodging along the wall to the door, unnoticed by anyone but Wulfgar while the ale-wife and her slaves were fluttering round Toli Silkbeard and the half-dozen men he’d brought with him like moths round a candle.
Silkbeard seated himself on the one bench with a back to it, pulling Gunnvor down to sit on his left, pointing Eirik to a place on his right, and disposing the rest around him on low stools. Wulfgar’s party were all being drawn into the circle. He saw Silkbeard nod at Ronan, acknowledging him but with none of the warmth with which he’d greeted Gunnvor. He was asking her for news from Leicester: who was out, who in.
She laughed. ‘Still buzzing like bees in a toppled hive. Ketil’s
flexing
his muscles, calling in favours. He’s confirmed my grant of the High Cross south of Leicester.’
Wulfgar noticed she said nothing about Ketil slapping her face, though the little red welt was still visible.
‘And adding to your fortune?’ Silkbeard said. He put his hand on her knee and Wulfgar saw her stiffen.
She doesn’t like that, he thought. He felt an unfamiliar, protective rage blaze through his veins, but it was damped too quickly by fear as Silkbeard caught his eye and smiled, before turning to the whole room.
‘Richest woman in all the Five Boroughs and still she wants more.’ His tone invited their laughter. ‘Richest, and prettiest.’
‘Toli Hrafnsson,’ Gunnvor said. ‘Let me present my friends. You know Father Ronan – this is Wulfgar of Winchester—’
But Toli, who had been nodding impatiently, interrupted her. ‘So, Gunnvor Bolladottir, now that Hakon’s dead, who’s the lucky man? Ketil? Or am I in with a chance?’
Her mouth twisted. It might have been a smile. ‘Oh, I’m past the age for that, Toli Hrafnsson. Better ask who my heirs are.’
Silkbeard looked round the company, still inviting their mockery. ‘Listen to her! Ripe as summer berries, she is, and the nonsense that comes out of her mouth.’
Gunnvor raised her eyebrows. ‘I might ask you the same, Toli Hrafnsson. Look at you, Jarl of all Lincoln for a whole winter and not even one wife yet?’
Silkbeard laughed.
‘Buy a cow, when milk’s mine for the taking?’ He went on stroking her knee. ‘It would depend on what the wife brought with her, of course.’ He glanced over at Wulfgar then. ‘Ulfgeir! When you said “your friends”, I didn’t know you meant Gunnvor
Bolladottir
. I’d have come straight down with you if I’d known she was here.’
Thank my guardian angel I didn’t know she was coming, then, Wulfgar thought. He said something in response, he had no idea what.
Silkbeard snapped his fingers for wine, and in the bustle Father Ronan leaned over, tickling Wulfgar’s ear with his whiskers. ‘
Your friends?
’ he said meaningly. ‘Have you been hobnobbing with Toli? You’ve got some explaining to do, my lad.’
Wulfgar nodded, unable to meet the priest’s eyes.
Ednoth stared at him, too, a furrow deepening between his brows.
Wulfgar looked away.
And now Silkbeard was shouting at him: ‘Ulfgeir the Lordless! I want to know you better. Are all your friends so interesting?’ He snapped his fingers again and gestured to the ale-wife, and Wulfgar found his cup was being filled.
‘Drink, Ulfgeir! Swear friendship with me!’
Wulfgar knocked cups with the Jarl and drank, but he couldn’t hold Silkbeard’s gaze; he found his eyes flickering past, looking into the shadows for Thorvald. No sign of him, but then he couldn’t see much beyond the firelight. He hoped the fragile little man had managed to slip out.
Eirik was looking at Father Ronan, something unfathomable in his eyes.
‘Still wasting your breath preaching, priest?’ he asked.
‘You should come along to my Margaret-kirk, next time you’re down in Leicester,’ Father Ronan said easily. ‘I had your friend Orm Ormsson in my flock on Sunday, setting you all a good example.’
Eirik hawked and spat into the straw.
‘Christianity,’ he said with great deliberation, ‘is a faith for thralls. And fools.’
Wulfgar felt his stomach twisting.
But Father Ronan only smiled.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘my friend. That’s just what it is.’
‘Ormsson is no fool.’ Eirik stared at Ronan, expressionless. ‘Impulsive, maybe. But no fool.’
Wulfgar stood up, his knees shaky. He was tipsier than he’d realised.
‘Where’s the, um …’ He wanted to say
necessarium
– the need-house.
But the attentive ale-wife knew what he meant.
‘Skitter-house,
herra
? Through that doorway, in the garth.’
He stumbled out. The sky was still light but the little backyard with its high walls lay in shadow. He nearly fell over the snoring pig and in steadying himself put his hand into a stand of nettles and swore. The pit had wattle hurdles around it and a wooden seat. He fumbled with his belt and got his leggings down, his guts twisting painfully now. But all to no avail. He sat there in the stench, listening to his belly gripe and gurgle and the pig snorting and rootling in the midden, watching the sunset-tinted clouds move across the sky and wondering how he could face his friends. He thought, I can’t go back in there and explain when I don’t know what I’ve done. Perhaps I could just stay out here, find a refuge with the safe, friendly pig. Like St Frideswide, he thought. Didn’t she work as a swineherd for three years to avoid the unwanted attentions of a wealthy man who wanted to marry her? I can’t see Gunnvor Cat’s-Eyes doing that, he thought, and snorted aloud.
In the end, it was Ronan who came out looking for him.
Wulfgar scrambled unsteadily to his feet.
Ronan stood by the inn door, silent, waiting.
When Wulfgar had finished tying his leggings, the priest said, ‘More secrets, Wuffa? Or am I talking to
Ulfgeir
?’
‘I only met him for the first time this morning,’ Wulfgar said.
‘Toli?’
‘Who else?’
Ronan shrugged.
‘Perhaps it’s no business of mine, even though I’ve come along on this escapade solely with the aim of helping you.’
Wulfgar felt a blush start. He looked down.
‘I’m a good listener, though,’ the priest went on. ‘If you need me. And discreet. It comes with the job.’
The pig was on its feet now and snuffling around Wulfgar’s legs, and he bent to give it a scratch behind its hairy ears. He longed to tell Ronan everything, but he was prevented by a forceful memory of the Atheling: Wulfgar could sense him now, looming over him, gripping his elbow, saying,
Tell no one else. No one, do you hear me?
‘We need to go,’ Ronan said. ‘Now. If Eirik is here, dancing attendance on Toli Silkbeard, then at least he won’t be at Bardney. And if we go now, we’ll be there for Thorvald at moonrise. God knows, that poor little man and his saint have been kept waiting long enough.’
The only way out of the yard was through the hall.
As Wulfgar ducked to go in, Father Ronan put his arm out to block the other man’s path.
‘Be warned. These are dangerous men.’
His hand still on the door curtain, Wulfgar said, ‘Silkbeard has been very kind to me.’ Silkbeard had liked him, he thought, had trusted him. Wulfgar sensed no danger, not from that quarter,
anyway
. He allowed himself a little spurt of anger. ‘You and the Spider seem to be old friends.’
Father Ronan pressed his lips together for a moment. ‘I told you we’d met. Eirik and I, we’ve had our disagreements over these many years. I don’t know what game you’re playing, Wuffa. But remember, no man can serve two masters. I hope you know what you’re doing.’
Not as devoutly as Wulfgar did himself.
CHAPTER TWENTY
EDNOTH SAW THEM
come in and he stood up. Wulfgar could see at once it was going to be hard for Gunnvor to extricate herself, however. Toli Silkbeard was still paying her that over-flattering attention, turning frequently from his men to speak to her in a low voice, resting his hand on her arm or her thigh. Wulfgar wondered whether Toli would notice him going and bid him farewell, but Lincoln’s Jarl was wholly caught up in his banter with Gunnvor.
Eirik the Spider saw him, though. His face didn’t change but Wulfgar could feel those hollow-socketed eyes following his progress all the way around the hall. He glanced back when they got to the door into the main courtyard to find Eirik was still watching him, his body twisted round, one elbow resting on the back of the bench.
As soon as the three of them were outside, Wulfgar said, ‘What about Gunnvor? We can’t just abandon her.’
‘Who wants
her
to come?’ Ednoth asked.
Ronan shook his head, smiling wryly. ‘If any woman can look after herself in that company, it’s Cat’s-Eyes.’ He saw Wulfgar still hesitated. ‘Leave it, Wuffa. She knows what she’s doing. Silkbeard won’t leave while she’s there, and Eirik can’t leave while Silkbeard’s there.’
Wulfgar took the point.
The ostler helped them saddle and pack the horses. Within moments they were riding out the way they’d come, but instead of bearing south west for the Fosse Way again, they took another road, just as old, just as straight, once they had splashed across the ford in accordance with Thorvald’s instructions. The new road took them due south, and they climbed the far side of Lincoln’s steep river valley and up onto open heathland.
Ermin Street
: the name drifted up from some long-forgotten charter. But they didn’t keep to the great road for long. As the sun westered, casting their shadows far to their left, Ronan steered his sturdy little beast off on a track that led away from the heathland and down through groves of lime just coming into leaf.