Authors: V. M. Whitworth
‘Me, my Lord?’ He smiled, buoyant with excitement. ‘It would be an honour. St Oswald! But surely I’m not worthy—’
‘Why not?’ The Atheling interrupted, looking pleased with himself. He counted off on his fingers: ‘Trusted, yes. A churchman, yes. And look at you. Who would suspect you of anything?’
They all looked.
Wulfgar squirmed under the onslaught of their eyes.
‘But surely we need someone who can fight?’ The Lady sounded doubtful.
The Bishop snorted.
‘No, Fleda. We need someone who can tell the bones of a saint from those of a pig. But I’m not sure Wulfgar’s our man.’
Despite the warmth of the little room, Wulfgar felt a wintry shiver of realisation ripple through him.
Fight?
They weren’t
talking
about him arranging a magnificent
adventus
for the saint, were they?
‘My Lady,’ he said in sudden panic. ‘I can’t – I mean, I don’t—’
The Atheling interrupted him.
‘Wulfgar, a word outside?’
Wulfgar looked beseechingly at the Lady, hoping she would countermand this order masquerading as a request, but she only nodded, her face tense and wary.
Taking Wulfgar’s arm, the Atheling slid open the bolt of the little door into the courtyard. They stepped out and he drew the door closed behind them. It was still raining, a light needle-prickle of water on the skin of face and neck and hands. There seemed to be no one else in the darkness but the guards around the glow of their brazier at the distant gate.
The Atheling stepped close to Wulfgar and murmured, warm into his ear, ‘Believe me. I know. You are the man to do this’
He needed it spelled out.
‘You mean I should go to Bardney, don’t you, my Lord?’
The Atheling ignored his question.
‘Who holds your loyalty?’ He took hold of Wulfgar’s upper arm again. ‘Is it Edward, after all? You’re still a West Saxon.’
Wulfgar, shoulders stiffening against the unwanted contact, shook his head in vehement protest.
‘Mercia, then?’
He shook his head again.
‘No, my Lord. At least—’
‘Yes?’
‘The Lady,’ he admitted.
The Atheling lifted his chin and laughed softly.
‘Ah, the Lady. Of course. Our lovely Fleda.’
Wulfgar caught a glint of teeth.
‘God above, Wulfgar, does it make the Mercians happy, having us here?’
Wulfgar had to shake his head again.
‘And do you want to go home to Winchester?’ The Atheling didn’t wait for an answer. ‘No more than I do. I should be King in Wessex. And that little bastard Edward wouldn’t even give me Kent.’
We shouldn’t be having this conversation, Wulfgar thought nervously. Men have been exiled for less. But being invited into the Atheling’s confidence was stirring deep, unfamiliar ripples of excitement in his soul.
‘Would – would Kent have satisfied you, my Lord?’
He felt, rather than heard, the Atheling’s soft laughter.
‘Oh, no. But how I would have enjoyed throwing his offer in his face.’ Now he gripped both Wulfgar’s shoulders. ‘Tell her you’ll do it. Go to Bardney. Show her what you’re made of. Make Mercia strong. Bring St Oswald home.’ His voice was warming, softening. ‘Show us you’re more than that bookish little boy who used to believe there was a bear behind the need-house.’
Wulfgar found it hard to smile in return. That bear had been very real.
‘Come back in, then? Tell her you’ll go?’ Wulfgar realised the Atheling was still laughing. ‘What? Don’t tell me you’re afraid? Of the Danes?’
Wulfgar could feel his cheeks grow warm. He nodded, ashamed.
‘Aren’t you men of God supposed to go forth as lambs among wolves?’
Wulfgar bit his lip. It was no more than the truth. My Lord
Seiriol’s
right, he thought. Here I am, being offered the chance to do something of infinite value. I have to take it.
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘That’s the spirit!’ The Atheling clapped Wulfgar on the shoulder. ‘Good man. In we go, then.’
Wulfgar, hot and cold with excitement and terror, found himself dazzled, eyes watering in the sudden brightness of the candles.
‘My Lady,’ he said quickly, ‘I’ll go to Bardney, if it pleases you to send me,’ half-hoping, half-fearing, that she was still opposed to the plan. ‘If you can hold the court without me … ?’
But she nodded at him, her face sombre and composed, and yet looking so soft and young without the severe frame of her veils. ‘You know I wouldn’t ask you if there was anyone else,’ she said gently.
He closed his eyes. What had he expected?
Well done, good and faithful servant
?
Behind him, he half-heard the Atheling saying, ‘Wulfgar’s loyal. He’ll do as he’s told.’
The Lady smiled right into his eyes.
‘More wine? Wulfgar, pour a cup for yourself.’
Any other time the invitation to join them would have surprised and delighted him, but now it barely registered among the flurry of his thoughts. If he succeeded, it would show those smug placemen at the cathedral he deserved his standing in the Lady’s favour. He would come home in triumph with the greatest king and saint the English had ever known, snug in his saddle bags. There would be new songs, stories, miracles. It would make his name for ever.
Miracles.
Mercia had never needed a miracle as badly as she did now.
The green glass cup turned round and round in his hands, the wine slopping close to the brim. He swallowed and felt the warmth of southern vineyards trickling through his veins.
‘Then we’ll have to find a Mercian to accompany him,’ the Bishop said. ‘I refuse to trust a West Saxon, not even this one. What if he finds St Oswald’s bones and takes them to Winchester, to Edward?’
Wulfgar’s mouth fell open in outrage.
The Lady looked up then. Her direct grey gaze met Wulfgar’s full on. And her smile was like the sun coming out.
‘He won’t,’ she said, with utter confidence. ‘Wulfgar’s loyalty is to me. We should go through to the hall,’ she said, reaching for her veils. ‘Wulfgar, pass me the pins.’
Wulfgar obeyed, his mind far elsewhere.
‘How far is it to Bardney, my Lady?’
It was the Atheling who answered.
‘Not much over a hundred miles north and east to Lincoln, and Bardney’s hard by.’ He sounded as though he rode it daily. ‘Set off at dawn, hey, Wulfgar?’ He smiled at the Lady. ‘Give him a week. If he rides the fastest road.’
‘A
week
?’ The Lady put her hand to her mouth. ‘What if my Lord doesn’t survive a week?’
‘The fastest road, my Lord?’ Wulfgar asked, his cold fingers fumbling for a pin.
I don’t know where I’m going, he thought, and I don’t even know how to get there.
‘Leicester,’ the Atheling said. ‘And on to Lincoln. Easy. There’s only one road.’
‘The Fosse Way,’ Wulfgar said slowly.
The road into the dark.
CHAPTER SIX
THE BISHOP WAS
concluding the prayers. Wulfgar, up on the dais, standing discreetly to one side, looked over the row of the Lord’s armed hearth-retainers to the crowd. Two hundred men were packed in shoulder to shoulder like sheep in a penfold, cloaks giving off the stifling aroma of damp wool. The air was thick with the smoke from hearth and torches and clusters of candles on their iron stands. It was hard to breathe.
Enthroned, her little face framed in those thick-worked, shimmering veils, his Lady looked far more like an image of the Queen of Heaven than the flesh and blood woman the Bishop had called her. Her husband’s massive seat with its lion-headed armrests had swallowed her up, the hems of her skirts barely brushing the floor. Wulfgar realised he should have brought her a footstool; there must be one somewhere in the Bishop’s palace. He berated himself for his thoughtlessness. She cradled the will on her lap; he had picked it up for her after the Bishop had left the antechamber.
‘Amen,’ came booming from the floor, and Wulfgar realised the prayers were already over, and the Bishop was settling comfortably onto the purple-padded judgment-stool at the Lady’s side. Her face was grim, her little hands gripping the arms of the chair. Wulfgar could hear the mutters coming up from the crowd, angry that the Bishop should apparently be judging a case in which he was also the plaintiff. The Bishop had to hear the grumbles too, but he ignored them. Now the young defendant came up to the dais to put his case. His voice was loud, his indignant words tumbling one over another.
‘He told me I had to become a priest! We all thought he was making fun of us, at first. We’ll pay you rent instead, we said, but word came back he –’ a furious thumb was jerked at the Bishop ‘– wouldn’t accept. And we’ve fed our sheep on those meadows for some hundred years. It’s not
fair
!’ The young man pushed a lock of chestnut-brown hair out of his eyes and took a deep, preparatory breath, but a look from the Lady silenced him. He still looked sulky though. A cocky brat.
He’s doing himself no favours there, thought Wulfgar.
The Lady unfolded the old will now, the hall suddenly so quiet that the stiff vellum could be heard cracking. She kept them waiting, an unnecessary hand raised for silence, while her eyes flickered over the text. At long last she got down from the chair.
‘Ednoth.’ Her voice was so low that Wulfgar could hear the sparrows twittering sleepily on the roof beams ten feet above his head. He found it hard to breathe, overcome with a rush of anxious, possessive pride. She cleared her throat. ‘Ednoth of Sodbury, I find evidence here in your ancestor’s will that your kin did indeed undertake to provide Worcester with a priest in every generation, or the land at Sodbury would revert to the cathedral.
You
and Bishop Werferth here agree that your family has failed to do this, and so he wants the land back. Is that right, my Lord Bishop?’
The Bishop nodded.
‘But it’s not about the land.’ He swivelled back to Ednoth, stabbing at him with a bony finger. ‘It’s about souls.
Your
soul, boy. Your great-grandfather entered this pact in good faith, trusting you to pray for him. In refusing the priesthood, you betray your own blood and bone.’
Wulfgar could feel the hairs lift on the back of his neck. How could the boy resist?
‘But surely, my Lord, you wouldn’t want an unwilling priest?’ The Lady was turning away from the Bishop without waiting for his reply. ‘Wulfgar?’
Flustered, he stepped forward.
‘Take this, please.’ She held out the will. He could see her nervousness, the quick pink flicker of her tongue over her dry, pale lips. ‘And make a note of my judgment.’
He scrabbled for the wax tablets at his waist as she turned back to the young man.
‘Ednoth of Sodbury, this is the judgment of the court of Mercia. Your family has failed in its most sacred duty. The Bishop will tell you the cost of masses for your dead, and the penance for your sins. I see your father’s wergild is two hundred shillings, and I would ask the Bishop to bear that in mind when assessing compensation.’
A satisfied growl from the Bishop.
But she hadn’t finished.
‘However, you keep the land.’
Ednoth whooped with delight.
What an arrogant young fool, Wulfgar thought. Didn’t he care if he alienated the Bishop?
But the Lady smiled at the young man.
‘We need loyal friends like your kin down on the Wessex border.’
A triumphant grin spread across Ednoth’s face, reflected in the growing murmur of support from the floor.
‘The bond in this will has outlived its purpose. Justice and common law dictate the terms be changed to an annual rent of fifteen shillings. Wulfgar, have you noted all that?’
He nodded.
‘Enough. Let us adjourn for the feast, and the most solemn celebration of Easter. On Monday we reconvene, and, God willing, the Lord of the Mercians will be back in his chair.’
Ednoth raised a clenched fist in triumph, turning from side to side, playing to the crowd.
‘I cannot allow this judgment!’ The Bishop was on his feet now. ‘Fleda, this is – Wulfgar, give me that will.’
Wulfgar clutched it to his breast, looking at the Lady. But she seemed to have forgotten about him. She swept around the screen, back to the antechamber, head held high, women flocking in attendance. Ednoth had already vaulted over the low rail that edged the dais, straight into a mob of whooping, back-slapping friends.
‘Court dismissed,’ the steward shouted.
Already the big doors at the far end were opening; the noisy factions of thanes and their kin, the gildsmen, the law-suitors, their witnesses and hangers-on, were collecting their weapons and heading out into the dark with their heavy burdens of gossip for the inns and hearths of Worcester.
She’s done it, he thought. She’s made them accept her in the judgment seat. Now we’ve a few days’ grace to celebrate the Resurrection of our Lord – and perhaps that of the Lord of the Mercians as well. He looked up and blushed to encounter the Bishop’s furious, one-eyed stare.