‘It’s all right,’ says Merewyn, placing a hand upon his knee, trying to calm him.
Oslac scratches his forehead. ‘So you rescued these treasures from the Normans, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Not the Normans. Others.’
‘Who?’
‘Hateful people, whose hearts were hard and whose minds were filled with evil. Wretches for whom the sanctity of the Church meant nothing. Outlaws. Reavers.’
Beorn is watching him carefully. ‘You make it sound as if you knew them.’
Guthred doesn’t say anything for a long time. He raises a hand to his forehead, as if he has an ache there.
‘I did. Yes, I did. I knew them. I was one of them.’
Tova isn’t sure what she was expecting to hear, but it wasn’t that. ‘You, a reaver?’
‘For a while, yes, I was, although my sins go back further than that. I’m a bad person, you see. A bad, bad person. But it’s a long story, as I said. I wouldn’t want to burden you with my woes. The last thing you want to hear is my sorry tale.’
‘I’d rather listen to your tale than hear any more of his singing,’ Beorn says as he glares at Oslac, who glowers back at him. ‘It can’t be any more depressing than that.’
‘If he doesn’t want to speak, he shouldn’t have to,’ Merewyn says. ‘What gives us the right to pry? It’s not any of our business. Like you said, Beorn, we’ve all done bad things. We all have our secret shames – things we’re not proud of. Shouldn’t we be allowed to keep those things to ourselves if we want to?’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Oslac mutters. ‘My slate is clean.’
Tova glances anxiously at her lady. If any of the others only knew the truth about them, knew what they’re running from . . .
‘It’s all right,’ says Guthred. ‘If we’re going to be travelling together, you deserve to know the truth about me. It’s been far too long since I made confession. Maybe I’ll never get the chance to do so again. So this might as well be it. That is, if you’ll indulge a broken old fool.’
He glances around the fire. Oslac waits patiently for him to start. Of course, there’s probably nothing a storyteller like him relishes more than spending an evening exchanging tales. Whether they’re joyous or grim probably doesn’t even matter to him. Beorn shrugs, as if he couldn’t much care either way, but Tova can see from the frown on his face that he too is intrigued by this man. This was-but-is-no-longer-priest.
As is she.
‘We’re listening,’ Merewyn says.
He nods. ‘Very well.’
And he begins.
Guthred
As I said, it’s a long story, but I’ll try to make the telling of it as quick as I can. For my own sake, and for yours.
Like everyone else, you probably see this grey-haired figure, wrinkled and decaying in body, wearing this cross, and you say to yourselves, he must be a good man. Well, I’m not. I’m no more holy or worthy of respect than any of you. How many times have I done penance? How many times have I prostrated myself at my bishop’s feet, begging his forgiveness and vowing to do better in future?
Words. That’s all they were. All those promises, as empty as the sky. I can’t run from the truth any longer. After all that I’ve done, Hell is no more than I deserve.
For I’ve sinned. Sinned worse than you can imagine.
No, it’s true. I don’t say this because I want your pity. I say it because I don’t want you to think I’m something that I’m not. Lord knows how many people over the years have sought my guidance, have come to me for comfort and wisdom and hope. They looked to me as an example of how they should live and give praise to God. An example of goodness and honesty and virtue.
If they only knew how wrong they were.
I’m no priest, nor should I ever have been. I was never meant for the holy life, not really. The truth is I’d probably have died long ago in the village where I grew up, worn out through years of toil, had it not been for a lie.
That’s how it started, you see.