‘Bishop Ignatius of Antioch,’ he murmured to me when the relic-bundle was shown to him. Awe-stricken, he turned it over slowly in his hand, squinting at the tiny writing. ‘He was blessed as a child by Christ, and later martyred by the pagan emperor of Rome, who had him fed to lions, as I recall. He was among the holiest of holy men.’ He eyed Byrhtwald closely. ‘How much do you want for it?’
‘Surely you’re not asking me to part with so treasured a possession?’ the pedlar asked. ‘I have borne St Ignatius with me everywhere I go for seven years and more.’
‘Spare us,’ I said. He wouldn’t have allowed myself or the priest to examine it so closely if he had no intention of selling it. Nor had I seen him wearing the pendant in all the times he had come to Earnford before now, which suggested, despite his story about the Flemish merchant, that it had come into his possession recently. ‘How much?’
‘Two pounds of silver are all I ask for.’
‘Two whole pounds?’ I repeated. A good riding horse would cost as much, and in fact probably less. ‘For all I know this could be nothing but a sheep-bone.’
Byrhtwald looked affronted. ‘Have I ever cheated you before, lord?’
That was no answer, and both of us knew it. But I supposed he had been honest in all the dealings I’d had with him thus far, and so perhaps he spoke truthfully this time as well. I turned away to confer again with the priest.
‘Tancred,’ said Erchembald, keeping his voice low in an effort to contain his obvious excitement, ‘a relic this ancient would have tremendous power. And to think that the saint was touched by Christ Himself.’ He paused. ‘Our friend might not know how much this is truly worth.’
I had to suppress a laugh. ‘I’ll wager he knows exactly what it’s worth.’ Although if Byrhtwald were sincere about its provenance, then the protection such an object would lend whoever possessed it would be more than worth the cost.
I opened the coin-purse which hung from my belt. ‘I’ll give you half a pound,’ I said to the trader.
‘Half a pound? You would rob me and let me and my poor wife and children starve!’
‘The last time we met, you told me your wife was dead.’
His cheeks turned red. ‘She recovered,’ he mumbled.
‘She recovered?’
‘Thanks to St Ignatius!’ he said, and looked pleased with himself for having thought of this answer. ‘It turned out she had only fallen into the deepest of sleeps, brought on by her ravaging illness. All of us thought her dead, but on the day that she was to be buried she miraculously awoke, thanks to the blessed saint’s favour.’
That he was lying was clear, but exactly which parts of his tale were false and which were true I could not say. Still, I admired his nerve and his quick mind. As always I found myself entertained by him, even as he frustrated me.
‘Two-thirds,’ I said. ‘No more.’
He hesitated as if considering, and then smiled, holding up his hands to show that I had beaten him. ‘Two-thirds,’ he conceded. ‘Provided that I can have a bed in your hall tonight, a warm meal and a flagon of your best ale.’
That seemed only fair, and so we settled it, weighing up the amount both on his scales and on the ones kept by the priest in his house until we could agree on the correct measure. Thus the toe-bone of the martyr St Ignatius belonged to me. If Byrhtwald had got less than he had hoped for, he did not seem overly disappointed. He tore into that evening’s meal and drank until he could barely stand. At the same time Father Erchembald remained convinced that we had secured a good price, and so everyone was happy.
As well as his wares, Byrhtwald often brought news of happenings elsewhere in the kingdom, and so far as I could tell he was usually reliable. He shared what knowledge he had the following morning while we broke our fast. Considering how much ale had vanished down his throat the night before, he seemed little the worse for wear. Certainly his appetite hadn’t diminished; the way he stuffed the bread into his mouth, one would have thought he hadn’t eaten in days.
‘They say’, he said in between mouthfuls, ‘that Wild Eadric is once more on the warpath.’
He looked at me meaningfully, as if expecting me to know who that was, and then took a gulp of goat’s milk from his cup. That was the first I had heard of any man of that name.
‘Who is he?’ I asked.
Byrhtwald spluttered. ‘You’ve never heard of him?’ White droplets dribbled down his chin, running into his beard. ‘Eadric, whom they call se wilda, the Wild One?’
‘Should I have?’