The Sword of Wayland by Gavin Chappell
* * * * *
The camp was in turmoil. Edmund and his men had fallen in quick succession, black arrows jutting from throat or torso.
‘Where are they?’ yelled Wilfred. ‘Robbers!’
‘I don’t see nobody,’ shouted Enwulf. ‘I don’t see nobody!’
‘It must be elves!’ another wagoner cried wildly, grabbing at a charm around his neck. ‘They do say the Forest of Arden is nearby, and that be haunted!’
Wilfred scowled. He’d heard enough tales about elves when he’d had the time to listen to idle tavern talk. None of it convinced him, though he was sure any man would see elves after enough Welsh ale.
‘Quiet!’ he barked. Slowly, the clamour of the frightened wagoners died down. No other noises took its place - the evening air was still and silent.
He shot a glance at the four twisted corpses, then stared round at the hills that loomed over them. They stood silent and empty, dark and deserted.
‘What’s happened?’ asked Eoric, scratching himself. ‘We were being attacked…’
‘An old trick,’ said Wilfred with brash confidence, though the eerie silence had him as flummoxed as his men. ‘The robbers hope to panic us,’ he continued, raising his voice so all the wagoners could hear. ‘Doubtless, there aren’t enough of the cowards to take us all on, so they seek to weaken us by scaring us out of our wits. And I must say, they seem to be doing a good job.’
‘What do we do, master?’ asked Enwulf contritely, a new tone of respect in his voice.
‘We mount a guard, and sit tight till morning,’ replied Wilfred. ‘Then, unless they attack us, we get moving.’ He glanced again at the four corpses. At least he wouldn’t have to pay them, he thought, then felt slightly ashamed by his callousness.
‘And bury Edmund and the others,’ he added. He turned swiftly, and went to pitch his tent.
It was a tense night. For much of the time, Wilfred lay awake, alert to the slightest noise from outside the tent, and in the meanwhile considering the pros and cons of selling up his business and opening up a new line. His nephews operated a merchant fleet out of London, Southampton, Dorestad, and Quentovic, shipping all manner of high-yield commodities; linen, cloth, English slaves and Frankish silverware. They had built up a financial empire in the years Wilfred had spent lugging querns back and forth across the seven kingdoms, and he knew they looked down their noses at the Lindsey branch of the family. Much as Wilfred himself scorned their poor cousins in York, whose trading cartel had never quite recovered after that attack by Danish Vikings in the North Sea, which came just on the heels of the great fire of York… But the Danes were quiet these days.
That decided him. If the seas were safe from Vikings, he’d much rather risk his livelihood against storms and shipwreck than spend another night sweating in fear in a tent pitched on the wild heaths, forever listening for signs of attack. His wife would approve too, if they moved somewhere fashionable like London or Ipswich.
His mind seething with plans for improving his life, he forgot the terrors beyond the tent-flap. Eventually, he drifted into contented dreams of wealth, health, and prosperity.
The morning sun came slanting in through the tent flap, and Wilfred realised that he was awake. Thrusting aside fading dreams of thaneship and a life of ease, he pulled on his tunic and stumbled outside.
Well, no one had attacked them yet, he thought as he gazed round the peaceful camp. The tents and wagons stood silent except for the snores of the idle wagoners. Two men, one of them Eoric, were frying bacon over the fire. They looked up as Wilfred appeared.
‘Looks like your gamble paid off,’ said Eoric. ‘If we get going quick, I reckon we’ll be halfway across the Vale of the Red Horse before the robbers appear.’
Wilfred smiled tiredly, and decided he might donate some of the coming profits to the Church.
‘I’ve been gambling all my life,’ he said breezily. ‘As long as you know when to take risks and when to cover yourself, as long as you’re cautious and never overconfident, it’s no hardship. Those robbers must think we’re fools. Doubtless, they think they’ve demoralised us, and think they’ll be able to loot us at their leisure. But no, we’re going to get out of this situation with our skins intact and our assets at a premium…’
Eoric leapt to his feet, eyes wide with fright. Wilfred turned hurriedly to see what had startled him, then froze.
Three grubby men had appeared in the gap between two wagons. Hairy and unwashed, armed to the teeth, they looked like they had spent their lives in the greenwood.
‘Morning,’ said the villainous little robber in the middle. He strolled up to Wilfred, flanked by the bearded man who looked like a Danish Viking down on his luck, and the other whose filthy clothes must have once belonged to a man of fashion.
‘We’ve nothing here to concern gentlemen such as yourself,’ said Wilfred quickly, wringing his hands. ‘There’s no profit in goods that need an ox-cart to transport. What if I give you a few farthings and you leave us alone?’
The little man’s grimy face split open in a grin.
‘I think our merchant friend believes us to be robbers,’ he said with a laugh.
‘Robbers?’ the Dane grunted. ‘But what’s so funny about…’
‘No, no, we’re not robbers,’ the little man said, interrupting his companion swiftly. ‘We’re… what d’you call ‘em? Wandering adventurers, hired swords, mercenaries.’ He tapped his nose. ‘See, we’re a bit poverty-stricken now King Offa’s beaten the Welsh, and we’re looking for employment elsewhere.’
‘You mean since the summer incursion?’ asked Wilfred. He’d heard how the Welsh had come down from their mountains after their defeat in the spring, though he’d been safe in Lincoln when the raids began, and they hadn’t got so far north.
‘Summer incursion?’ asked the tall, well-dressed warrior. ‘There’s been another attack?’
‘Why yes.’ Wilfred laughed. ‘Quite a bad one, too. Where have you been?’
‘Did they… How far did they get?’ the man asked worriedly.
‘As far as Tamworth at least,’ Wilfred said. ‘But the king defeated them, and beat them back to the hills. I heard that he’s started building a system of defences from sea to sea to keep them at bay.’
‘Like Wade’s Dyke?’ asked the man.
Wilfred nodded. ‘But all the way from the Bristol Channel to the Dee. They’re calling it Offa’s Dyke, I believe. But where have you been hiding, if you haven’t heard about all this?’
The three men looked at each other. ‘We, er, we missed the war this summer,’ said the little man. ‘We were all laid up with wounds after the spring campaign, and didn’t get out too much. Damn, we missed a war? We’d have been well paid, I bet, if King Offa was in charge. Now what will we do? Maybe we could find some employment in Wessex - they’re always fighting someone; the Cornishmen, the Kentishmen, each other.’ He paused, as if struck by a sudden thought. ‘You’re not heading for Wessex, are you? Maybe we could hitch a lift, maybe guard your wagon-train for you - or do you already have men to do that?’
Wilfred shook his head. ‘As a matter of fact…’ he began lamely.
‘You haven’t?’ asked the little man in amazement. He glanced around shiftily. ‘Sounds bad policy to me, for a merchant. This area is crawling with cut-throats and footpads, all ready to fall upon any passing merchants, slaughter them all and steal their stock.’ He sighed in a world-weary manner. ‘It wasn’t like that in the old days, was it? I hear there’s one gang who are particularly cunning. They attack at night, kill all the guards, then leave the wagon-train defenceless. Then they attack as soon as the wagons get moving in the morning, taking all the goods and leaving the merchant to die in penury, or even be sold as a debtor thrall.’ He shook his head. ‘Such a terrible world it is. Sometimes I consider taking on holy orders to escape it all, to seek my salvation in the bowels of Christ…’
‘Alright, alright,’ snapped Wilfred, nervous. ‘You’re hired! Eoric
The warriors stood alone as the two wagoners went off to wake their fellows.
‘Well, Edwin,’ said the slighter of the little man’s companions. ‘I have to hand it to you. Never mind joining the Church, you ought to become a merchant yourself, you slippery little shyster.’
‘Not with my reputation, Oswald!’ Edwin replied. ‘Which reminds me. If we pass through any towns, nobody is to do anything that will draw attention to us. We should be safe amongst this crowd, but if we meet any of the king’s men, we’re done for. Right, Bork? No tavern brawls, you hear me? Even if they call you a heathen. We don’t want any attention.’
‘Aye, Edwin,’ the Dane said, scowling. ‘I’ll control myself.’
The journey, across Dunsmore Heath and along the eastern fringes of the Vale of the Red Horse, was slow to begin with, owing to the state of the road and the heaviness of the goods they were carrying. Oswald made a mental note that if his king ever pardoned him, he would ask him to encourage the locals to maintain the roads regularly.
But now they were passing out of the heartland of Mercia, and into the semi-independent land of the Hwicce, which was ruled by three hoary old brothers, Enbert, Uhtred, and Eldred, who deputised for Offa himself. The shape of the country itself began to change as they passed from the wooded, marshy lowlands, and began the climb into the Cotswolds.
The light was failing, as they trundled through the hills, a few miles north from the monastery and town of Stow. Wilfred turned to his new caravan guard as they crested the rise, and saw the stone edifice topping the hill before them.
‘The Wychwood itself is not far from here,’ he told them. ‘The road is dangerous, and long ago I made a lasting arrangement with the monks, who provide rooms at the inn in return for reduced prices on my goods. Monks own most of the mills these days, and they’re my most loyal customer base.’
Oswald said nothing. Trade meant nothing to a man of his breeding.
As they made their way down the dusty road towards the monastery, he kept his eyes about him. They had only passed through one major settlement since joining the wagon train… He rubbed his eyes wearily, and tried to see how it would look from an outsider’s view. An English aristocrat, working as a hired sword for a Frisian merchant? His ancestors would be turning in their graves.
But that wasn’t important. What mattered was that King Offa had enough influence over the Hwicce for it to be certain that Oswald and his companions’ descriptions had been cried in the market place of the town. As Edwin said, they would have to be cautious.
The road wound through fields full of sheep, up the next hill to the gates of the town that had grown up around the monastery. Eight roads joined the Fosse Way in Stow, and it had long been a centre for the Cotswolds, both for church and state. Three blackened skulls spiked above the gate leered down at the wagoners as they rumbled into town, reminding Oswald of the sharp justice the monks meted out to the robbers of the nearby forests.
Edwin spat contemptuously, and said in an undertone. ‘They got caught!’
‘Quiet!’ Oswald hissed. ‘And don’t forget - you were captured once.’
The main street of the town led them through ranks of tidy-looking cottages, and into the market square. Though it was not yet market-day, the town still bustled with people.
The monastery was a high stone building that loomed over the town, dark-walled and sinister. Wilfred sent the wagoners on towards an inn called The Holly Bush, but then turned to Oswald and his two comrades.
‘Must pay my respects to the abbot,’ he grunted. ‘Come on.’
He led them towards the monastery. Oswald glanced worriedly at Edwin.
‘Surely the monks will have our descriptions,’ he said urgently.
Edwin returned his look. ‘You’re right,’ he replied. ‘Especially mine. We once pulled off a job round here. Rustled some of the abbot’s best sheep.’
‘Hurry up!’ called Wilfred over his shoulder, as he rode into the courtyard. ‘What are you waiting for?’
‘Just stay at the back and make yourself inconspicuous,’ Oswald said, as panic rose like bile within him. He dug his heels in to his horse’s flanks and rode after the merchant.
Beyond the archway, they found themselves in a different world, a courtyard that was silent and hushed after the bustle of the town. Ahead rose the main building of the monastery, to one side was a chapel, and a few monks and nuns were pacing the courtyard in a dignified fashion. Oswald knew that although the Pope now deemed the mixed house (where nuns and monks lived adjacently), to be anathema, few Mercian monasteries had accepted the new ways.
A novice monk waited beside the entrance to the abbey proper, and he took their reins as they hurriedly dismounted and stood huddled behind Wilfred. Another monk stood expectantly in the doorway. Distant chanting floated over from the chapel as the three outlaws waited for Wilfred to speak.
‘Don’t look so wan,’ said the Frisian cheerily. ‘The abbot’s an old friend of mine. He won’t eat you. Come along.’ He thought the abbot’s status awed them, Oswald realised, as they followed Wilfred and the monk into the cool shade of the monastery.
But the abbot hardly glanced at him when the monk showed them into his chambers. It seemed that he was more interested by the handsome young monk, eating beside him.
‘Talk to my clerk about it,’ said the fat old man, absently scratching his groin. He returned his attention to the monk beside him, muttering, ‘More important matters to discuss...’
‘Yes, lord abbot,’ said Wilfred humbly, his demeanour entirely changed. ‘Will it be the usual fee?’
‘Oh get out!’ barked the abbot, fixing the merchant with a cold glare. He started suddenly. ‘Don’t I know you?’
‘It’s Wilfred the merchant,’ Wilfred replied quickly. ‘Purveyor of quality milling materials to the Church, chief supplier to the Bishop of Lincoln and…’
‘No, not you, you grubby little tradesman,’ snapped the abbot. ‘Who’re these?’ He waved a fat, be-ringed finger in the general direction of Oswald, Edwin, and Bork. ‘I know them from somewhere.’
Wilfred looked more than a little put out.
‘They’re only my guards,’ he said in a wounded tone. ‘Common mercenaries. My lord abbot, don’t you remember me?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said the abbot vaguely, scratching his crotch. ‘Milling materials…’ His gaze trailed over to Edwin.
‘Well, I don’t know what you see in them!’ said the young monk petulantly. ‘They’ve clearly no conception of how to dress.’
‘Silence, Ganymede!’ the abbot snarled, his face purpling and his chins shaking. He scratched at his groin again, then turned back to Wilfred.
‘Alright, alright, get out,’ he barked. ‘I’ve told you already! Talk to my clerk.’
‘Come on,’ said Wilfred, and they beat a hasty retreat.
‘I’ve never known the abbot to be like that,’ Wilfred complained as they rode towards the inn. ‘He’s always been so complimentary before.’
‘He had other things on his mind,’ Bork rumbled. ‘Damned nithing.’ The Danes took a puritanical view of sexual irregularities, despite their long hair, over-indulgence in drink, and outlandish fixation on personal hygiene.
‘At least he didn’t recognise me,’ Edwin said. ‘Thanks to his bum-boy.’
Wilfred halted his horse, and looked piercingly at Edwin.
‘Is there anything I ought to know?’ he demanded.
Edwin looked startled. ‘Ah, no… not at all,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Ignore me.’
Wilfred’s eyes narrowed. ‘If I find I’ve taken on an outlaw,’ he said warningly, ‘I won’t hesitate to notify the authorities.’
He turned his horse, and cantered towards the inn. The three outlaws sat glaring at each other.
‘This was your idea,’ snapped Oswald.
‘I never said we should go elf-hunting in Wessex,’ Edwin countered angrily.
‘Quiet, the pair of you,’ Bork rumbled. ‘Do you want to draw any more attention to us?’
After a couple of seconds they relented, and turned their horses towards the inn.
Evening found them in the crowded common room of the inn. The room seethed with roaring, laughing men. Three women, dressed garishly and revealingly, danced at one end of the room to the strains of three musicians, a fiddler, a drummer and a horn-player. The barmaids, who served Oswald and his companions with foaming tankards of Welsh ale, seemed no more decorous to the thane.
Edwin slapped Oswald’s back as he took a tentative sip at his ale.
‘Cheer up, Oswald,’ said the thief, taking his eyes away from the dancers. ‘This is the first time we’ve had a roof over our heads in months.’
Oswald looked up angrily. ‘I still think we should have remained in our rooms,’ he snapped. ‘Like Wilfred.’
‘Ah, you don’t want to be like him,’ said one of the wagoners from the table next to him. ‘Poring over his accounts like a clerk. You want to get legless like the rest of us.’
‘See?’ Edwin said, taking a deep swig of his ale. ‘Be like the rest!’ he urged. In an undertone, he added ‘Fit in! We don’t want to attract attention, remember?’
‘And this isn’t going to attract attention?’ Oswald gazed around the crowded room. It seemed as if all the men in the town - apart from the monks, who were doubtless drinking themselves into a stupor in their monastery - had piled into the inn.
‘No,’ Edwin replied emphatically. ‘We’re just faces in the crowd here. If we act oddly, memories might be stirred. But this way no one will look at us twice.’
A delighted roar from Bork interrupted him. One of the dancers had leapt onto a nearby table and was swaying her hips and jiggling roughly in time to the music. The men surged around her. Anxious not to look out of place, Oswald followed the tide. He caught a glimpse of Edwin grinning approvingly.
Perhaps Oswald’s act was too convincing. When the dancers and musicians retired into a chamber off the common room, Oswald was surprise to find he and his companions joined by a plump young man dressed in tattered finery and smelling disturbingly of musk. He flicked a look at the three outlaws, their garb and their general demeanour, and settled on Oswald.
‘I, ah, see you’re enjoying yourself,’ he said meaningfully. Oswald glanced up from his ale.
‘Oh, certainly, certainly,’ he replied. He added; ‘The musicians are very good.’
The young man licked his lips with a fat pink tongue and winked in an over-familiar way, casting shifty glances over his shoulder.
‘I saw that, ah, you were paying a fair bit of attention to the girls,’ he said quietly. He licked his lips again. ‘Lovely wenches, aren’t they?’
‘I’m sure,’ Oswald replied reservedly, and with a sudden pang thought of Godiva.
‘I, er, I am acquainted with one of those girls,’ the young man oozed. ‘She’s from Ireland, you know - the holy land of Ireland.’ Oswald noticed Edwin watching their conversation with a wry, half-scornful expression on his face.
‘Is that so?’ Oswald asked absently. ‘Perhaps you’re her chaperone?’
The young man tittered. ‘Oh, you’re a one, you’re a one!’ he chuckled. ‘Wicked, that’s what you are, sinful. But I see we understand each other.’ Suddenly he was talking business, though Oswald still hadn’t quite caught his meaning.
‘Oh, yes, yes,’ he replied hurriedly. ‘Perfectly.’ He wished the youth would talk to someone else.
‘So you’d like me to arrange a… ah, a meeting with her - Mildred, they call her, though there’s nothing mild about her!’ The young man continued the conversation, though by now it was completely over Oswald’s head. He clutched at a straw.
‘You mean, to compliment her for her performance?’ he asked.
The young man roared with laughter. In an instant, he was serious again.
‘I don’t think we need fence any longer,’ he said. ‘We’re neither of us in holy orders, we both catch each other’s drift, we both know that sometimes a man has to err from the path of righteousness and maybe Christ will forgive him on Doomsday - a silver penny for the usual, ha’penny extra for anything exotic.’ He winked, while Oswald stared at him, dumbfounded. ‘And let me tell you, Mildred knows how to get exotic,’ he added meaningfully.
Oswald’s mind went blank. ‘I’m sorry?’ he said. ‘You’re expecting money from me? Are you a beggar?’
The youth laughed coldly.
‘You’re a bargainer, I see,’ he replied. ‘A streak of Frisian blood? But I’d watch that tongue of yours. Everyone’s got a job to do - some work, some pray, some fight. But those with an ounce of sense buy and sell. And I’ve got something worth selling.’
Oswald noticed Edwin and Bork nudging each other and grinning. He shot a glance of appeal at them. Edwin laughed.
‘He’s a whoremonger,’ Bork rumbled. ‘He thinks you want to sleep with one of his girls.’
Oswald looked horrified at the plump, perfumed pimp. Pay to be with a tavern wench? Who’d probably sleep with thirty churls and merchants that week alone? He could feel himself growing angry!
‘Don’t take it to heart, Oswald,’ said Bork, laying his hand on Oswald’s arm. He grinned knowingly at the pimp. ‘I don’t think you’ve got a sale here, fellow. Try me. I’ve never bedded an Irish wench - if she is Irish, with a name like that.’
The pimp looked mincingly at the Dane, looking him up and down.
‘Try you?’ he spat, scorn lacing his voice. ‘I’d pay good money to keep you away from my girls. I shudder to think how I’d get them back, heathen.’
Bork glowered. ‘Don’t use that word, friend,’ he said in an undertone.
‘Oooh, what a spitfire!’ sneered the pimp. ‘Oooh, scratch my eyes out!’ It seemed that he was seeking a thorough drubbing. Oswald caught Bork’s eye. He shook his head.
‘Not now,’ he said urgently. ‘Not in here.’
‘And why shouldn’t he?’ the pimp flounced. ‘Why don’t we test this heathen’s mettle?’
‘Don’t call me heathen!’ Bork roared. ‘I am a Dane. I do not worship your White-Christ. But you will not call me heathen.’
‘Pagan, then,’ the pimp replied. ‘Poor bewildered devil-worshipper!’
‘The Aesir are not devils,’ said Bork hotly.
‘False gods,’ said the pimp airily. ‘Idols. Nursery bogles who steal children and shoot arrows at cattle.’ It seemed he had confused them with the elves.
‘Leave my friend be,’ Oswald interjected, warningly.
‘Your friend, is it?’ flounced the pimp. ‘I’m sure that’s all there is between you. Who knows what goes on with men who grow their hair and drink themselves to the level of beasts!’
‘Flatten him, Dane!’ shouted Eoric the wagoner. ‘I wouldn’t take that lying down!’
‘Saucy,’ Enwulf laughed. ‘Go on, Dane! Let’s see something of the old heathen fighting spirit!’
Bork looked confused and angry. ‘We don’t want any trouble with the Watch,’ Edwin stated firmly.
‘Why not?’ asked the pimp. ‘Are you rogues and outlaws? Or are you just trying to hide the fact that your friend is a coward?’
A crunch of snapping bone resounded through the crowded room. The pimp fell to the floor, clutching his bloody nose. Bork loomed over him.
‘Bork - no!’ cried Oswald. Then the pimp staggered up and whipped out a light sword.
‘You’d point that woman’s toy at me?’ Bork growled.
‘Stop that n
Heedless, the pimp darted a thrust at Bork, who dodged it calmly, then seized his axe from beside his chair. He came at the pimp, blade flashing in the torchlight.
‘To me, if you’re Christian men!’ yelled the pimp nasally, parrying a well-aimed swing. ‘We’ll pound this pagan’s bones to a pulp!’
He leapt back to avoid Bork’s attack and slipped in a pool of spilt beer, going down with a crash and a startled squawk. Bork stood silent, his face impassive.
The pimp scrambled up, eyes wide. Bork allowed him to regain his footing, then attacked.
The pimp desperately parried the blow, wincing as it jarred his arm. He almost dropped the blade.
‘Where are you, men?’ he snorted. ‘Let’s kill this pagan!’
‘You’re on your own, whoremonger,’ shouted one of the locals. ‘The heathen’s a better man than you’ll ever be!’
Snarling, the pimp lunged, opening a gash on Bork’s left arm. He glanced at it briefly.
‘First blood to you,’ he remarked calmly, as the blood trickled down his arm. Then he swiftly swung his axe in a flashing crescent that was too quick to follow. Blood fountained across the floor, and the pimp’s headless body crashed heavily to the floor. His head landed beside it with a thud.
‘A good fighter, but careless,’ remarked Bork. That moment, the doors burst open. Oswald turned at the noise.
Beside him, Edwin groaned dismally. In the doorway stood the innkeeper and six or seven men dressed in leather jerkins and holding spears. The Town Watch had arrived.
Their captain strolled up to Bork and his companions. He glared at the Dane, and nodded towards the pimp’s body.
‘You do this?’ he demanded.
‘Aye,’ Bork replied. ‘He talked too much.’
‘A bad man, but his girls were clean,’ the captain replied. ‘Still, we can’t have this. You’re coming with us. And you two.’ He jerked his head towards Oswald and Edwin.
They exchanged glances. Edwin shook his head.
‘This was exactly what I wanted to avoid,’ he said. ‘Now things get complicated.’
7 THE UNWILLING WITCH
‘We’re not coming with you,’ Bork replied. ‘We’ll have to fight you.’
Edwin scowled, and stepped forward.
‘That’s enough of that, Bork,’ he barked. ‘Even you can’t take on the whole town. We’ll go quietly.’
‘Are you mad?’ the Dane inquired. ‘You said yourself, we can’t…’
‘Quiet!’ Edwin hissed.
‘Come along now,’ said the captain wearily, as his men prodded them outside. ‘And give me those!’
He seized their weapons, and started marching them towards the abbey.
‘Feeling lucky?’ Edwin asked Oswald quietly. The thane stared back at the little thief.
‘No, not particularly,’ he answered. ‘Why?’
‘What about rich?’ Edwin added. ‘Have you still got that purse of silver pennies?’
Oswald frowned. He’d had little chance to spend them in the last few months. Though they had buried the loot they’d taken from the monk, Oswald had never felt like adding his own wealth to the hoard.
‘Why do you ask?’ he said.
‘Last time I was dragged up to the abbot’s house,’ Edwin started, ‘he dropped a hint or two that any contributions to the Church would make up the harm my men had made and save our necks. But my followers caught up with me and busted me out of the lock-up, so the fact I hadn’t a bent farthing to my name wasn’t a problem. But…’
‘You mean we can bribe him?’ Oswald asked.
‘You catch on quick,’ Bork rumbled from beside him. ‘That’s why you wouldn’t let me kill them?’ he asked Edwin. The thief nodded.
‘If we get out of this, we can stick with Wilfred,’ he said. ‘If not - well, it’s a long walk to Wayland’s Smithy.’
They had reached the entrance to the abbey courtyard. The watchman shouted at them to hurry their pace, and his men marched them across the courtyard, and down the dark echoing corridors to the abbot’s study.
He looked up from his desk, where he was absently scratching his groin.
‘What now?’ he demanded, bad-temperedly.
‘These three men were causing a disturbance in The Holly Bush,’ reported the captain. ‘The Dane killed Edgar the Whoremonger.’
‘We must be thankful for small mercies,’ the abbot replied savagely. ‘What do you want me to do? Shove them in the lock-up and hang them in the morning. Oh, and give a small amount of their possessions to the whoremonger’s dependants.’
Edwin stepped forward, smiling confidently.
‘I know that justice is swift and merciless out here on the border,’ he said, ‘but there’s no need for that. We’re quite willing to make good any inconvenience we may have caused, by means of a contribution to the Church.’ He glanced at Oswald. ‘Oswald?’ he prompted.
A little grudgingly, the thane threw Edwin his purse. It jingled as Edwin caught it, and the abbot’s eyes lit up. He stared in surprise at Edwin, as if seeing him for the first time.
‘I hope this will be adequate,’ Edwin said. He flung the purse down on the table.
Without taking his eyes off Edwin, the abbot picked it up. He opened poured out the contents, glancing cursorily at them, then with more interest.
‘This is much appreciated!’ he said in oily tones. ‘But no need to ask where you found it, eh - Edwin the Lawless?’ His voice seeped menace, as he locked his gaze with the thief.
‘You remember me?’ Edwin asked in mock surprise. ‘Well, there should be enough money there to pay for a whole flock of sheep, times being what they are and money what it is. So you can let us go, and drop all charges, can’t you?’
The abbot smiled thinly and shook his head. Oswald’s heart sank.
‘Currently our coffers are brimming,’ he said regretfully. ‘Your charitable contribution will be appreciated, but it will take a king’s ransom to buy me. And besides,’ he added, smiling darkly, ‘Archbishop Higbert will reward me mightily if I send him your heads.’
‘Run!’ shouted Edwin suddenly.
Oswald elbowed the watchman holding him, and broke free. Bork flung his captor to the floor. Oswald turned towards the door.
He stopped dead as a young nun tripped lightly through the arch.
‘My lord abbot,’ she said hurriedly. ‘The sister superior sends me to tell you that your poultice is re…’
She stopped dead, eyeing the scene of mayhem. Her melting blue eyes met Oswald’s.
‘Godiva!’ the thane cried.
‘Oswald!’ the nun gasped.
‘Get them!’ roared the abbot.
The watchmen fell on the fugitives and bore them to the ground at the startled nun’s feet. Oswald struggled free long enough to gaze up at her.
‘Godiva!’ he repeated wildly.
‘Shut his mouth!’ roared the abbot. He rounded on Godiva. ‘I don’t know what connection you have with these rogues, but by God I’ll find out if I have to give you a hundred lashes! Now go and fetch me my poultice.’
Without a glance at the outlaws, the nun fled. The chief watchman forced Oswald down again.
‘What do we do with them?’ he asked.
‘Lock them up!’ the abbot sneered. ‘Throw them in the lock-up in the town square. Tomorrow they will hang - if they survive a night in the same cell as a witch!’
The three fugitives exchanged bewildered, horrified glances.