The Bone Thief by V. M. Whitworth

brandished the letter.
    Wulfgar tried to resist a smile. So, the Bishop did value him, despite all the evidence to the contrary. He wished Kenelm had heard his uncle’s admission. Belatedly, he realised that the Bishop was still speaking.
    ‘A task for when you return.’
    ‘Return? Oh, Bardney.’
    ‘Indeed,’ the Bishop said. ‘Bardney Abbey. What a tragedy.’ He rubbed at his empty eye socket. ‘I remember it well, in its glory days. On an island, surrounded by fen. Now the stronghold of a heathen called Eirik, known as the Spider—’
    There was a thumping knock at the door.
    Wulfgar jumped.
    ‘Enter.’
    Two armed men, framed by light, entered, thrusting a grubby and rumpled Ednoth of Sodbury between them. Wulfgar’s nostrils twitched at the penetrating fumes of stale wine. A third man reached in to dump a bulky bag inside the door, its half-open flap revealing a glimpse of purple-stained leather straps, decorated with silver-gilt roundels. The boy’s sword-belt, no doubt, and the rest of his gear.
    ‘Good. Put him over there.’
    The young Ednoth stood just inside the door, looking like thunder.
    ‘Where was I?’
    ‘Eirik the Spider, my Lord,’ Wulfgar said, startled and distracted.
    ‘Ah, yes. His reeve – a man named Thorvald – contacted me in February. He claimed that his mother’s father had been the guardian of the shrine—’
    ‘But Thorvald’s a
Danish
name,’ Wulfgar said, unable to stop himself, still rattled by Ednoth’s sudden appearance.
    ‘Oh, yes, his father was a Danish soldier. But his own loyalty is to his saint, he tells me. His grandfather entrusted him with the secret of where the relics lie. This Eirik has no idea – he is rarely there . His wife runs the estate. Thorvald’s price is five pounds in silver. Under no circumstances will you let him know the true worth of the relics. We don’t want him inviting other offers.’
    Wulfgar blinked.
    ‘Other
offers
, my Lord?’
    The Bishop snorted.
    ‘Name me a bishop in Wessex who wouldn’t break half the commandments to have Oswald King and Martyr in his church. That jumped-up swineherd, Denewulf of Winchester, for one. But I’ve no cause to think he’s on the scent.’
    Wulfgar, bridling at the insult to his old superior, couldn’t restrain himself any longer.
    ‘But, my Lord, canon law forbids –
nemo martyrum mercetur
—’ His bravado stuttered to a halt in the face of Bishop Werferth’s unwavering glare.
    ‘Don’t tell me how to do my job, subdeacon.’ The Bishop’s mouth twitched.
    Are you
laughing
at me? Wulfgar thought.
    ‘Shall we say that Thorvald is giving us a present, and we’re giving him one in return? No
marketing the martyr
there, eh? No
nefarious
haggling? So you can stop pulling that face.’ He sighed. ‘It’s a dirty world out there, Wulfgar. Not everyone can afford the luxury of a conscience as freshly fulled and bleached as yours.’
    Wulfgar nodded, shocked and unhappy. It wasn’t a matter of conscience, but a matter of canon law, and the law could hardly be clearer. He could hear his uncle lecturing on the subject even now: ‘
Nefas est
, the clause says,
sacras reliquias vendere
– translate, Wulfgar?’ And his own voice, piping: ‘It is absolutely forbidden to sell sacred relics.’
    He came back to the present moment with a frown. Absolutely forbidden – and the Bishop knew it as well as Wulfgar did himself. Wulfgar glanced at Ednoth, but the boy was still staring at the floor, brows knitted and lower lip jutting. No help from that quarter, but he hadn’t really expected any.
    The Bishop tugged the largest of his massive rings over a bony knuckle. He held it out to Wulfgar.
    ‘This will serve as your passport. Thorvald knows it. Take good care of it. My steward will find you two horses and some supplies.’ He unlocked a small chest that stood by the side of the desk, and removed one weighty and one smaller leather bag. ‘Thorvald’s five pounds. Another pound for