I began taking things, small things at first, when no one was looking. Pots of ointment from shelves, spoons and knives, a handful of nails from the forge, keys that happened to be left lying about – that sort of thing. I became adept at concealing objects in my palm or up my sleeve or in the folds of my tunic. No one showed me how; these were tricks I taught myself, with practice and some narrow escapes when I came within an eyeblink of being found out. I never dared to sell the things I took, and in any case I didn’t know who’d want them. What I’d do instead was either climb the great gnarled oak that stood by the edge of the meadow and cram my prizes into its crevices and hollows, or else bury them all together deep in the woods: dig a hole and cover them over with earth and bracken and hope that no one noticed. Sometimes, when my help wasn’t needed at home, I’d go and make sure that no one had disturbed my hoards. I’d sit on the ground with everything laid out in front of me and feel like a king counting out his gold. Of course I was always terrified someone would discover me, especially once I learned that the penalty for theft was flogging, but at the same time it gave me a thrill like nothing else, and I couldn’t stop myself.
And it paid, in the end. The summer I was eleven, Bishop Leofgar himself came to visit the manor where we lived. He held lands in three shires, and would tour them all from time to time, although apparently he hadn’t been to ours since before I was born, so it was considered a great honour when the reeve received the news and announced it before everyone. A great celebration was arranged for the bishop’s arrival, and after that there was a procession in which he and all his under-priests entered the church in their fine robes and bestowed blessings and gifts upon the manor. The whole village came to hear the Mass. I’d never seen the like before. All my life had been lived in browns and greens and greys, but suddenly a different world was revealed to me. A glimpse of Heaven. At the head of the procession was carried a silver cross the length of one’s forearm, studded with sparkling stones. On a bier two monks in robes carried a gilded box shaped like a house that shone like the sun. A reliquary, it was, though at the time I didn’t know that. The other churchmen wore richly woven chasubles over their robes, and in the middle of them came the bishop himself.
In my memory I picture him as being almost as old as I am now, and maybe he was, although to a child’s eyes everyone seems ancient, so probably he wasn’t quite as frail as I thought at the time. He came dressed all in white, I remember, like a saint. In one hand he held a staff, while his fingers were decorated with silver rings engraved with tiny letters, which he took off later on, when it came to the feast that had been prepared in his honour. He obviously didn’t want to get them dirty, and so he laid them out on the long table in front of him, in plain view. Four of them, all in a row from left to right.
I was there, and my sisters too; the reeve had chosen us along with some of the other children to attend on the bishop and his retinue in the hall where he was being entertained. We were to carry food from the kitchens and take away empty bowls, fetch pitchers of water and ale, see that they had everything they needed and otherwise make ourselves useful. It was a summer’s evening, still hot, and so the hearth fire hadn’t been lit; I remember the great doors had been opened to let in the light, but even so it was dim, and noisy too. There were dozens of people all talking over one another, dogs yapping as they scurried around the table in search of scraps, while in the corner a harpist struggled to make himself heard above it all, and amid all that commotion and with so many people going to and fro, I thought to myself how easy it would be to snatch up one of those rings from the table when no one was looking.
It was reckless, thinking about it now. If I’d been spotted, that would probably have been it for me, no matter that I was young. The only thing worse than stealing from a bishop is probably stealing from the king himself. I could easily have lost my hand, or worse. But I was thinking about the challenge, not the consequences. That was why I did it, you understand. Not because the things I took were necessarily valuable, although in this case they were, but just to see whether I could. Only later did I seek to profit from it. Back then it was little more than a game, that was all. The more I played, the better I grew, and so I always had to set myself harder and harder tests. And this was a challenge if ever there was one. The silver lay there, inviting me, taunting me to take it if I dared.
And I couldn’t resist.
*
‘What does this have to do with your friends the outlaws?’ Beorn asks. ‘I thought you were going to tell us about them, not about some bishop and his rings.’
‘Please,’ Guthred says. ‘If this is to be my confession, then I want you to hear everything.’
‘Let him speak,’ says Oslac. ‘Some tales need time to tell.’
Beorn doesn’t look happy, but he waves a grudging hand in acquiescence, too tired, it seems, to argue.
*
I waited until there was a distraction, a moment when the bishop and those around him were engaged in deep conversation. About the nature of angels, I seem to remember it was. They were gesturing wildly, and one of the older priests was thumping his fist upon the table, either excited by the debate or in objection to something that had been said, causing knives to jump and bowls to rattle.
Anyway, they paid me no attention as I refilled their ale cups, nor as I set the jug down in front of them, nor as I lifted away their greasy plates. Nor did they notice as with the same hand I slipped one of those silver rings into my palm and walked away.
I ought to have known I wouldn’t get far.
In fact I’d barely managed five paces when the bishop cried out in his scratchy voice, ‘My ring! Where is it? Where is it?’