Oathbreaker (The King's Hounds series)

by Martin Jensen

“Prior Edmund happened to be in Canterbury and was willing to listen to Cnut’s proposal,” Godskalk said with a shrug.

  “But…,” I said, struck by a thought, “the prior arrived in Oxford last week, and you got here today. You can’t expect me to believe a flock of monks rode here faster than the head of the king’s housecarls.”

  Godskalk’s response was a sly grin.

  “The king simply suggested that the prior make use of Master Winston’s talents,” he said. “Prior Edmund isn’t aware of Cnut’s true motives. We had hoped the matter would be settled before I arrived, and that you would already have signed a contract.”

  I wondered if Edmund had sent a messenger to inform the king that Winston had refused to accept the job.

  “The prior was furious after his conversation with you,” Godskalk continued. “So much so, in fact, that one of my housecarls who was overnighting here on his way east overheard the prior ranting. I had previously arranged to meet that housecarl in Taceham, a day’s ride to the south. And when I got there, he told me of the prior’s anger.” Godskalk smiled again. “So I thought I’d better ride up here and set things right.”

  “So if Winston had said yes to that fart of a monk, we would have set out north without knowing what the king wanted us to do?” I said, not following.

  Godskalk gave me an almost pitying look.

  “My travels are taking me north from Taceham,” he explained. “I would have ‘happened’ to run into you, and we would have had a nice time over a few tankards of ale as old acquaintances from Oxford.”

  “The brethren left four days ago,” I said. “Even though they’re not riding the best mounts, they have quite a head start. All we have at our disposal is Winston’s worm-ridden old mule, and there’s no way we can catch up with them on foot.”

  “So,” Godskalk said, standing up, “let’s get you outfitted from the king’s stables next to the hall as soon as possible.”

  Chapter 4

  It took us a full day to ready ourselves for the trip. Winston pointed out to Godskalk—who was impatient to see us on our way so he could return to the king—that he could not start an illumination job without his tools and materials.

  And so we spent most of a morning carefully packing away his pens; paintbrushes; sticks of lead; envelopes of gold leaf; jars of red lead; rolls of parchment; small pouches of lapis lazuli; bottles and pots of yellow, green, and black paint; rulers; and countless other items that Winston needed for his work. The afternoon sun gradually passed over the town while he painstakingly stowed his packages away into bags or rolled them up into cornets, which he stored in big leather satchels meticulously tied closed with multiple cords. By the time evening came, “our” room—as we still called it, although I was the only one who still slept there—resembled a merchant’s stall with all the little parcels covering the bed.

  After bidding a proper farewell to Engelise in the meadow grasses, I retrieved Atheling, Winston’s slightly lame and extremely obstreperous mule, from his stall. Then Winston and I secured the bags to the mule’s bony back. I was very careful to keep out of reach of his rotten teeth, which I knew all too well could still bite very effectively despite their apparent frailty.

  Once Winston was convinced everything was properly stowed, I pulled Atheling behind us through the streets to the king’s stables, where the two horses we’d chosen awaited us. Winston had selected a gray mare with a blocky head and a sweet-tempered look in her brown eyes, while I’d chosen a red gelding with good, strong pasterns and eyes that seemed to say he would stand his ground should we encounter any trouble.

  I tied Atheling to the post in front of the stable. After I’d saddled the horses, Winston came to join me, having said his farewell to Alfilda. She had decided to stay at her inn and not see us off.

  We bid Godskalk farewell as well and rode out the northern gate with my gelding and me in front and Winston and his mare leading the mule by the reins. I wore soft wool breeches and an open linen tunic, and had secured my baldric to my pommel. The hilt of my sword lay within reach of my right hand. I’d secured my small bundle of clothing behind me.

  The day was bright and warm, with a gentle breeze that cooled my face and ruffled my hair. I was incredibly happy to get out of town. I kneed my mount and couldn’t stifle my laugh of delight as he instantly obeyed, breaking into a canter. The sun, the wind, and the powerful horse moving beneath me returned me to a time when my father and brother, Harding, were still alive. When, as King Ethelred’s men, we still had our estate.

  I rode as far as five arrowshots ahead, testing the horse’s responsiveness to the bit and to my knees. Satisfied, I stopped beneath a great oak that offered a pleasant shady spot while I watched Winston catch up calmly along the trail.

  That night we slept under the open sky. The horses and the mule grazed peacefully side by side. Apparently Atheling realized that both the mare and the gelding were stronger than he was, because he didn’t try anything with either of them. Winston snored next to me, and when I finally fell asleep, I dreamt King Cnut had made me a thane and granted me an estate that I could pass down to my heirs.

  Given how eager Prior Edmund had recently been for Winston to illuminate his book, you would think he’d have been happy when we caught up to him. But he seemed almost annoyed when we walked into the hall where he was staying.

  In the late afternoon of our third day of riding, we reached a small village named Brackley, where the road from Oxford crossed another road running from the southeast toward the west. Despite Brackley’s size, it had a large hall, the home of the thane responsible for the crossroads. As we entered, four spearmen who were vigilantly keeping an eye on passersby hailed us.

  I explained that we were riding to Peterborough at the request of the prior there, and after checking that we weren’t hiding a flock of bandits in our mule’s saddlebags, they informed us that we were in luck: the prior happened to be in the village hall right now as a guest of the thane.

  We rode up to the hall and were again greeted by spearmen. They inquired within, and after demanding my sword, they let us enter.

  A stocky Viking thane with red braids hanging down over his ring mail–clad chest sat in the high seat. His face was coarse, and he had a bright-red scar running from the corner of his left eye down across his cheek, where it disappeared under the beard that covered his strong chin.

  His eyes followed us as we walked across the floor, but he didn’t greet us with a slight nod of his head until we stopped and gave him our names. He told us he was Leif, the king’s thane.

  “And you’re here on Prior Edmund’s business,” he continued, glancing at the monk by his side.

  “You turned down my offer,” Prior Edmund stated, eyeing us resentfully.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Winston said, bowing politely and giving me a look to bow, too.

  “Why?” Edmund demanded.

  “My lady friend sent me packing,” Winston explained.

  I had to admire Winston’s graceful lying skills.

  “So you come running after me, crying for forgiveness,” Edmund said, his mocking tone sounding almost pouty. “I seem to recall you informing Subprior Simon that no one could make you change your mind.”

  That wasn’t completely true. What Winston had said was that Simon couldn’t stop other monasteries from hiring him for his artistic abilities. But since Winston didn’t correct the prior, I decided I wouldn’t either.

  “Fine, fine,” Edmund said, leaning back. “Name your demands.”

  Winston dug a foot into the dust on the floor, and then he glanced up at the smoke-blackened ceiling.

  “You would like a book done, as far as I recall,” Winston said. “So at least eight full-page illuminations, I presume?”

  The prior nodded.

  “Initials?”

  “Our own scribes will do those.”

  “Smaller illustrations?”

  “Maybe. Let’s say eight of them.”

  �
��Are your scribes skilled?”

  “Our master scribe is,” Prior Edmund said. “And he’s a man who knows how to get the best work from his assistants.”

  “But are they skillful enough to draw initials?”

  “The master scribe will handle those.”

  “Hmm,” Winston said, scratching the back of one hand. “I get to approve the parchments.”

  “That’s not going to go over very well,” Edmund said, seriously but not harshly. Negotiating the details of the deal seemed to have dissipated his anger. His ruddy face seemed just as friendly as the first time I’d seen it.

  “You mean with the master scribe?” Winston said. “Yes, I realize that, but that point is nonnegotiable.”

  “All the parchments?” the prior asked. A furrow now appeared between his eyes.

  “Any that I’m going to draw or paint on, yes,” Winston said with a sigh.

  “Fine,” Edmund said. Although Edmund was apparently unaccustomed to hearing the word no, he also didn’t seem to be one to quibble over details now that Winston had accepted the assignment. “And your price?”

  Winston closed his eyes. I saw his lips moving, as if he were talking to himself. Eventually he looked up. “One and a half pounds of silver.”

  “That’s outrageous!” Edmund exclaimed, shaking his head.

  “Outrageous?” Winston said. “By no means. Eight fully illuminated pages and an equal number of half-page illustrations for me to color and complete. You’ve heard my price.”

  “Which is much too high.” There was no trace of merriment left on the prior’s face now, nor in his voice.

  “Well then.” Winston turned to Thane Leif, who had been listening to the haggling in silence. “My lord, would you permit my man and me to spend the night in your village?”

  “You can sleep here in the hall,” Leif said, nodding. “I’m sure your man will find himself a spot.”

  “Would you permit me to carry my sword?” I asked, glaring at Leif.

  Sadly, this hint that I was a man of noble lineage left Leif unswayed concerning my current social rank.

  “If you give me your word you won’t unsheathe your sword unless you’re attacked, then I grant your request,” Leif said. “But you’ll have to find your own shelter for the night.”

  I turned away and heard Winston’s footsteps behind me as I strode toward the door.

  “You cover the cost of food and drink for you and your man,” Prior Edmund called out before we left the hall.

  Winston turned around and said, “A pound and a half of silver, a place to stay, and my food. I will cover Halfdan’s necessities myself.”

  Edmund bit his lip and then nodded.

  “Shall I draw up a contract?” Winston asked.

  “No,” the prior said, shaking his head. “We’ll have the sacristan do it once we reach the monastery.”

  Winston bowed.

  Once outside, we led the horses and mule to the meadow a spearman pointed out to us. I watched with some satisfaction as Atheling demonstrated who he thought was in charge of the paddock, sinking his teeth into the shoulder of a well-fed mule mare. I hoped it was the prior’s mount.

  Chapter 5

  The square outside the hall bustled with a ragtag group of wayfarers. The vulnerable travelers were availing themselves of the military retainers protecting Edmund and Simon.

  Of course such retainers often provided a false sense of security, because the thane or other nobleman who’d hired them determined the speed of travel. Typically the people clinging to the group for safety couldn’t keep pace. They would fall behind and risk falling victim to outlaws who wisely waited for the armed group to pass before attacking the stragglers.

  But apparently the monks moved along at quite a leisurely pace, befitting the ruminative religious men, wobbling along on the broad backs of their mules with their spearmen following them, always close enough to defend the monks should an enemy be sighted.

  Perhaps Prior Edmund still took the responsibility to care for the poor to heart enough that he intentionally kept his pace slow, so that even the poorest, most hunchbacked wayfarer could keep up. Wandering around in the grassy square, I realized that must be the case. I watched some people settling in around a cooking fire and erecting a makeshift shelter. Although the eldest and most infirm among them certainly looked tired from the day’s travel, none of them seemed completely exhausted or run ragged.

  Peddlers sat in groups, sizing up one another’s bundles, their minds busily comparing the quality of the others’ wares to their own. These were men equipped for life on the road, passing around full casks and jugs as they blabbered on. They told the kinds of stories that peddlers like to pass the time with—stories that are pretty much all about a huge sale almost made, before the unfortunate peddler either loses the goods or finds the item to be so readily available that no one is willing to pay the outrageous price named.

  For as many peddlers as I’ve met who claim they’ve almost made a fortune, it’s amusing how jealously they all guard their purses and coffers from prying eyes, leaving it all too clear that they’ve never actually made those fortunes. I’ve always wondered how they pay for their good shoes, their durable breeches and soft shirts; how it is that they always carry full bags of food and frothy kegs to put to their lips; and how the heavily laden horses, asses, or mules they pull along behind them are always well fed and glossy coated.

  Other groups settling in for the night were families, quite obviously Saxons who had lost their farms and land under the new king and now hoped there was land to be had up north. It was more than likely that the Danes up north would stubbornly insist the arable land was theirs. The luckiest of these Saxons would get a chance to become tenant farmers, peasants working some Danish farmer’s land. And the unluckiest would end up selling off their children, then their wives, and finally themselves, all into serfdom to those same Danish farmers, just so they would have a chance of not going to bed hungry at night.

  The other people I saw on the village green—the ones who couldn’t afford any wood for a cooking fire, let alone food to cook—consisted of myriad small bands of riffraff. They eagerly watched for someone to toss aside an already-chewed bone, a crust of bread, or maybe a chunk of meat full of cartilage.

  When that happened, they would pounce, frothing at the mouth, biting and hitting each other to make it to the tidbit first. And the man who succeeded would scarf the morsel down while holding his less fortunate fellow sufferers at bay with his free hand.

  The ones who succeeded most often were men who had already paid the price for escaping a battle alive: one-armed or handless men; men with stumps of limbs dangling between crutches and men supporting themselves on a wooden leg; one-eyed men, no longer useful in a spear wall since they can’t see to the side and are therefore a risk to those standing next to them; young men with arms hanging limp after a sword blow to the shoulder or a spear through the armpit; men whose fingers had been chopped off and could no longer hold a spear shaft. These were all men who had served fallen masters and had never earned their hoped-for pay. In the end it hadn’t mattered if they’d marched ahead in the dust, waited fearfully within the shield wall, or hacked away at the enemy’s shields, limbs, and necks while foaming at the mouth with a drive to fight. They had all wound up traveling the back roads, hoping somewhere or other there would be a patch of ground where they, too, might settle down, where a handless man could become a shepherd, a one-eyed man could drive a ploughshare, and a legless man could carve spoons or wooden shoes.

  Prior Edmund’s housecarls also occupied the square: a dozen spearmen seated around a wooden table under a tree. One of them was the housecarl who had approached me in Alfilda’s tavern. He happened to look up just then, and our eyes met. I nodded in greeting, which he returned uncertainly. Then he finally recognized me, stood halfway up, and gestured for me to join them.

  I didn’t have any better offers, so why not socialize with the soldiers? Which is
just what I did. I walked across the grass, stopped a couple of steps from the table, and gave them my name.

  My acquaintance responded by giving me his name. His friends nodded at me but apparently found no need to be any more polite than that to the son of a Saxon nobleman, since I had so obviously been cast out of the finer company in the hall.

  The spearman’s name was Wulfgar, and he willingly made space for me next to him and pushed a tankard of ale my way. I don’t know if he noticed his colleagues’ rudeness, but he smiled at a couple of them, who looked up in surprise when I asked how they could all be off duty at the same time. I had asked the question in the Danish I had learned from my mother. Her accent was hardly as grating as the Danish they speak in the north, and even Saxons can understand it, although some claim they have to concentrate so hard it gives them a headache.

  “So you’re a Dane, even though you’re dressed like a Saxon and travel in the company of Saxons?” Wulfgar asked, taking a pork shank from the platter in the middle of the table and passing it to me.

  “Saxon, Dane,” I said. “I am who I am.”

  Wulfgar gave me a quick glance and then apparently decided it was my own business who I chose to be.

  “And, yes, we can all stuff ourselves tonight since Leif’s housecarls are on duty,” Wulfgar added.

  I bit into the shank, which was fatty and smelled of rosemary.

  “Of course the thane’s men are responsible for security here, but isn’t it customary for a visiting nobleman to offer to have his soldiers serve a shift?” I asked.

  “Yes, that’s true,” Wulfgar said. “And Prior Edmund made just such an offer, but Leif turned him down. Apparently Leif would like the king to hear word that Leif does his duty and doesn’t need help from others.”

  “Noblemen are like that,” I said, spitting a bit of bone onto the grass.

  “If you say so,” Wulfgar said with a shrug.

  I didn’t detect any sarcasm in his voice, and I decided to change the subject.

  “What kind of man is this Prior Edmund?” I asked.