Free The Bone Thief by V. M. Whitworth

well from his schooldays.
    ‘An onion?’ he hazarded, with ill-concealed distaste.
    ‘What? No …’ Ednoth made a suggestive gesture. ‘Oh, Wulfgar, you’re such an innocent.’
    Wulfgar sighed. That was the worst thing about those riddles, he remembered belatedly. You couldn’t win. If he had given the obvious, shameless answer, Ednoth would only have hooted with laughter and accused him of having a filthy mind. It’s the sort of joke my father used to love, he thought. God rest his soul.

CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    Good Friday
     
    THEY SPENT THE night in a verminous inn at the little hamlet of Stratford, which did little to cheer Wulfgar. He woke at his usual early hour in a small hall, pitch-dark and full of snoring, farting strangers, aching in every muscle and with new flea bites in a band across his ribs from the musty straw. No one else was stirring. He huddled himself into his cloak to contemplate the banked embers of the hearth and pass the time till dawn by saying the prayers and psalms appropriate to
Tenebrae
, the heart-breaking service of the shadows, dedicated to darkness and loss. And then he had perforce to watch Ednoth break his fast with roasted eggs and fresh wheaten bread.
    ‘Have some,’ the ale-wife said cheerily, offering him the treen platter.
    ‘I’m fasting.’
    ‘But you’re a traveller, like everyone else,’ Ednoth joined in, gesturing round the hall. ‘Surely you don’t have to fast?’
    He could see the steam rising from the bread as Ednoth broke the crust apart with his fingers. The moist, white interior smelled deliciously yeasty.
    Tight-lipped, Wulfgar said, ‘But it’s Good Friday.’
    ‘And I’m excommunicated, so I’m doubly exempt.’ Ednoth grinned and reached for another small loaf from the heaped platter.
    Wulfgar got up and walked out of the inn. Penance, he thought furiously. Penance and fasting and alms-giving. That’s what excommunication means. It’s not a charter of liberties.
    Even another bright day couldn’t cure his bad temper. Getting back into the saddle had been agony on his already aching limbs. I should be at home in the cathedral, he thought bitterly. Holding up the cross for the people to venerate.
The royal banners forward go
, he chanted under his breath,
The cross shines forth in mystic glow
…
    Ednoth had been riding a length or two ahead. Now Wulfgar saw him stiffen. The road dipped here to cross a small stream, and he was reining Starlight in to peer down at the mud of the churned-up track-way.
    ‘What is it?’
    Ednoth didn’t answer. He had jumped down from the saddle and now he squinted at the soil.
    ‘There’s been a large party of horsemen along this way. They joined the road a hundred yards back or so. Not long ago, either.’
    ‘Well, we’re drawing close to the Fosse Way,’ Wulfgar said, not understanding Ednoth’s concern. ‘We can expect to meet farmers, and merchants.’
    Ednoth snorted.
    ‘
Wulfgar
. Look at the hoof prints.’
    Wulfgar slid gingerly out of his saddle. The mess of half-moons meant nothing to him.
    ‘So?’
    ‘Look at the size! And do you see the depth to them? We’re not talking pack-ponies here, or farm nags like these beasts we’re riding. Those were good horses – really good horses. More than a dozen. Ridden hard, too. Look how they’ve thrown the mud up.’ He gestured with his free hand.
    ‘Are you sure?’
    Ednoth gave him a long-suffering look.
    ‘Yes, I’m sure. I wonder who they might be. It looks like they’ve come up from the south. Wessex, maybe?’
    ‘Do we want to stay on this track, then?’
    ‘Do we have a choice?’
    ‘I just thought we might be better …’ Wulfgar tailed off, unwilling to give his fears a name.
    Ednoth yelped with laughter.
    ‘But that’s why I’m here! I’ll look after you.’
    Wulfgar shied away from his pitying look.
    ‘Wulfgar really isn’t a very good name for you, is it? You’re more like a mouse, really. I think I’ll call you