Oathbreaker (The King's Hounds series)

by Martin Jensen

  “Hmm,” Wulfgar said, scratching under his chin. “So you’re familiar with the fate of the vanquished.”

  “I used to be a jarl’s man,” I said with a shrug. “Now I’m my own.”

  “Isn’t that illuminator your master?”

  “We have an agreement, yes.”

  “How long have you been working for him?”

  “Six months,” I said. “And you?”

  He looked confused, so I explained: “How long have you been working for the monks?”

  “Oh. A couple of years now,” he said.

  Now I was getting to the part that interested me.

  “Mercia’s control extends a ways into the Danelaw now, doesn’t it?” I said, fishing.

  “King Cnut reigns over the entire land today, and he decides the extent of each jarl’s territory.”

  “And who will be jarl,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, that, too,” he said, giving me a dirty look. “That’s how it is with kings.”

  Culturally, he was definitely all Saxon, one who had obviously not forgotten the time when we were masters of our own houses.

  “They say,” I started hesitantly, “that Jarl Leofwine has a hard time… forgetting.”

  He shot me another pointed look. “Forgetting what?”

  “The death of his son Norman.”

  “Jarls have as much trouble as anyone else forgetting when they have been wronged,” Wulfgar snapped.

  “So you believe Norman was innocent of the accusations?”

  “I believe…” he began, but suddenly he stood up, fidgeting like someone who needs to move. “I believe that I don’t give a damn about Jarl Leofwine. I serve the monastery in Peterborough, and I couldn’t care less what the nobility is up to. Let’s you and me just let the jarls and kings do their thing, while we worry about the folk who are paying us.”

  I stood up, smiling. “As long as they pay us well.”

  “Exactly.”

  The sun had set during our meal and subsequent conversation. Now that he was up, Wulfgar looked around.

  “I’d better go check on the guards. You want to come?”

  But I had spotted a familiar silhouette in the gateway.

  “No,” I said. “The man who pays me appears to need me for something.”

  When I reached the gate, Winston started walking down the street away from the fortification without a word. I followed until we were an arrowshot from both the wall and the surrounding buildings. Winston stopped by a large mulberry bush.

  “Well, did you get anything out of him?”

  I grinned. “You guessed that was my goal?”

  “Of course. You’re not hard to read,” Winston said.

  “Well, Wulfgar is a farmer-turned-soldier who works for the monks and couldn’t care less about kings and jarls and their games.”

  “Hmm, as expected,” Winston said. “But still good to know.”

  “And what about the monks?” I asked. “They’re probably more interested than a simple soldier in what the various noblemen get up to.”

  “One is more stuck-up than the other,” Winston said with a snort. “They hired me, so in both men’s eyes I’m their inferior. If I ask them a question that’s not about food or travel, they just glare and go back to talking between themselves.”

  “It may not be so easy for us to gather the information Cnut’s looking for,” I said. “Well,” and I smiled, “unless I start hanging out with some noblemen, and you put those monastic asses in their place.”

  “Perhaps,” Winston said, eying me grumpily. “The former will no doubt be easier to achieve than the latter.”

  Chapter 9

  We’d been riding for a while the next morning when it occurred to me that something was wrong. The sun, which in this harvest month should have been coming from our right, was warming our backs and casting our shadows straight out ahead of us.

  I squeezed my knees and brought my horse up even with Wulfgar, who was riding alertly with his hand close to the hilt of his sword and his eyes continually scanning the countryside.

  He looked at me when he heard the hoofbeats.

  “Shouldn’t we have taken the track to the northeast?”

  Wulfgar’s eyes twinkled. “You have a good eye, Halfdan,” he said.

  “Which is why I’m still alive. Why are we riding north?”

  I expected him to say he’d sent out scouts, who had reported that outlaws lurked on the main road to Peterborough.

  But no.

  “The prior wants to spend the night in Brixworth.”

  I’d heard of the place. Apart from cathedral towns, Brixworth was home to the largest church in the country. They say the monastery there had suffered greatly back when Cnut’s father, Sweyn, and the Norwegian Olav Tryggvason ravaged the land, but I didn’t understand why Edmund would postpone his return home to Peterborough to visit Brixworth.

  Wulfgar smiled when I shared my thoughts with him.

  “Wait and see,” he said.

  I’m sure he knew that would pique my curiosity, but when he refused to answer any of my subsequent questions and returned to scanning our surroundings instead, I fell back and took up my place at Winston’s side again.

  We rested in Northampton, which many generations before had been the capital of the Mercian kings. It could no longer boast many reminders of its heyday. But the town’s thane had ale, bread, and cold meat brought out to the square for Wulfgar and his men and placed a freshly cooked pike in front of the monks, who ate by themselves. The monks sat on a blanket one of the spearmen spread on the grass at a good distance from the ragtag band.

  The spearmen politely invited me and Winston to share their meal. The ale was strongly malted and the roast pork loin tender. Once I’d eaten my fill, I offered to take over a watch shift from one of the four spearmen Wulfgar had instructed to ensure our safety while we ate, an offer that was gladly accepted. So I took up my position at the edge of the grassy area.

  It was an easy shift. Northampton was the home of King Cnut’s consort, Ælfgifu, and so was already being guarded by a large troop of soldiers. Not that I had seen any sign of Ælfgifu or had any idea if she was currently staying in the enormous hall—the thane didn’t think he owed the monks or anyone else any information about the lady’s business. It felt a little superfluous to be on guard here inside the fortifications, but Wulfgar was obviously a man who didn’t take any chances.

  Prior Edmund gave the last of the rabble accompanying us time to rest properly before he announced that we were setting off again. Although it was only about five miles from Northampton to Brixworth, the sun was already in the west by the time we rode up the hill to Brixworth’s church. The building towered like a vigilant dog, the glowing rays of the autumn sun warming its brown stone.

  The village of Brixworth sat at the bottom of the hill and looked well maintained and prosperous. About four wattle-fenced farms surrounded a wide, green central square. Brixworth also boasted an inn, easy to recognize by the green branch hanging over the front door. Another three farms were set back somewhat from the square. Five cottages with newly reed-thatched roofs lined the street leading up to the church, three on one side and two on the other. A lone stooped slave stared wide-eyed from the doorway of one of the cottages. Children played in the square, and we could hear hammer blows from a smithy sitting off on its own, about an arrowshot from the farms.

  And then I noticed a long, solid building set apart a bit from the other buildings. It didn’t look like a barn or a farmhouse. It definitely did not look like a church, although men dressed in cowls stood outside it. But before I could figure out what it was, we reached the church.

  The church building was surrounded by a solid palisade, a reminder that the church and the monastery within had learned from the looting raids of the past and now wished to make it as hard as possible for a pillaging enemy to access whatever riches Sweyn’s and Olav’s Vikings might have missed.

  Prior Edmund bowed
his head, signaling that Wulfgar should ride ahead to the palisade gate. Soon the sound of Wulfgar’s spear knocking on the solid wooden gate boomed through the early evening air.

  We waited. An impatient cough from the subprior caused Wulfgar to make another resounding blow on the plank gate door.

  A little more time passed, and then we heard a grating sound as someone raised the crossbar out of its iron supports and then the door slid open a little. A stocky man in a peasant coat stepped out toward us.

  “Prior Edmund from your motherhouse wishes to enter,” Simon said.

  The man raised his sunburned face toward Simon, looked at him for a brief moment, then looked at Wulfgar, and then finally settled on Prior Edmund.

  “Abbot Turold bids you greetings. All guests are welcome at Saint Winfrith’s monastery, even those who unjustly claim rights that are not theirs.”

  I saw Edmund’s lips tighten, but before he opened his mouth, the door slid open and the man gestured an invitation to enter. Edmund and Simon exchanged glances; then Simon shrugged and Edmund, who obviously interpreted the shrug as a signal, rode forward toward the gate, following the three spearmen who led our procession.

  To my and everyone else’s surprise, the man in the peasant coat stepped in front of the spearmen, stopping them with his right hand raised imperiously.

  “Our father expressly forbids any weapon from entering onto this holy ground.”

  Edmund’s eyes held a spark of rage.

  “I am Prior Edmund,” he said, obviously affronted. “And I wish the protection of these armed guards.”

  The door guard didn’t waver. “Abbot Turold is in charge here.”

  Winston, who had sat in silence up to this point, whistled softly to himself. Over Winston’s shoulder, Wulfgar winked at me. So this was what I’d been waiting to see.

  Edmund’s face reddened with barely contained rage. Then he apparently realized that if he did not do as told, he’d have to sleep outside the palisade on the bare ground. He gave a curt order for his spearmen to obey.

  Simon turned angrily toward Edmund but then lowered his head meekly after Edmund quietly told him—and any of the rest of us within earshot—that it would be time to put things in their proper places soon enough.

  After the men’s spears were leaned up beside the gate, the man in the peasant coat finally stepped aside and let the monks and their guards ride in but raised his hand again to stop Wulfgar. “Your sword, sir.”

  I was half-expecting either Wulfgar or the monks to point out that Wulfgar was not a thane, but when that didn’t happen, I rode up next to him and said, “I, too, am carrying a sword.”

  The gate guard gave me a look and said, “I see that.”

  I bit my lip in annoyance. “It’s worth significantly more than a spear,” I said. “And I do not wish to risk having it stolen by some random down-on-his-luck farmer, who wishes to enrich himself at my expense.”

  “The abbot is familiar with this objection,” the gate guard said, his lip twitching, “and permits men of rank, if they swear to uphold the peace while here, to place their swords at the Lord’s altar.”

  I could tell that he did not believe I really counted as a “man of rank,” but before I could give him a piece of my mind, I heard Winston’s voice behind me: “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Halfdan, just do what he says so we can get our rear ends off of these saddles.”

  With a nod to the gate guard, I dismounted, tossed my reins to the spearman who held Wulfgar’s horse firmly by the halter, and followed Wulfgar across the grass toward the church entrance, which was on the western end.

  As we approached from the south, the enormous Brixworth church loomed before us, extending to our right as far as a seasoned soldier can hurl a spear. The chancel and apse were off to our right. Along the base of the nave in front of us there were six little straw-roofed side chapels, each with a window looking out over the churchyard. It was quite simply the biggest building I had ever seen.

  We headed toward the entrance at the west end. The inside of the church was dark. Candles glowed in some of the side chambers, which I guessed contained the saints’ altars. A steady murmur of voices from within confirmed this.

  Through the great chancel arch ahead of me I saw the altar, made of rough stone and decorated with a single candle sitting between a silver container—the ciborium—and a silver chalice. I undid my sword belt and followed Wulfgar, my weapon in my right hand. I knelt down beside him and placed my unsheathed blade before the altar.

  I heard heavy footsteps in the nave behind me and instinctively slid to my left, turning to see who was coming. Then I suppressed a curse as it occurred to me, too late, that I should have just stuck my hand out and grabbed my sword. Wulfgar grinned at me in the dim light. He had already figured out that the footsteps belonged to the tongueless man, who was obeying the abbot’s orders by bringing his sword to the altar.

  The tongueless former soldier held his unsheathed weapon in his right hand. As we just had, he kneeled, respectfully kissed the blade, and laid his sword between our two. Then he stood back up and walked away, back down the entire length of the nave without so much as a glance at us.

  Wulfgar and I walked back through the church and out the door together, shoulder to shoulder. I had just shared with him my hope that the monks had something other than fish and porridge for us to buy when I heard horses tramping through the gate.

  The gate guard had stepped aside for a group of riders led by a skinny, black-haired thane on an equally black stallion, which danced across the churchyard grass toward us. We watched in silence as the new arrival handed his sword to a weaponless spearman in his group and ordered him with a hand gesture to bring it into the church. Then the thane turned his horse without a word and rode off toward the monastery buildings that stood before us, lit from behind by the light from the setting sun.

  Whereas the church was made of brown stone, the monastery was built of cob, a reminder that the original buildings had burned during the North Sea robbers’ raids.

  The main monastic building consisted of a hall surrounded by low rooms. Behind that lay a guesthouse with four sleeping chambers, which each slept eight men, and next to that, the monks’ sleeping hall, an unfinished room with a reed-and-fern-covered floor. Although I didn’t learn this until later that night—when I saw the room Winston and I were going to share with three spearmen—the monks apparently slept right on the floorboards.

  Behind the guesthouse lay another row of outbuildings up by the stable, where we determined that someone had taken good care of our horses and Atheling as well as the monks’ mules. On our way out, we made room at the doorway to the stable so the newly arrived riders could lead their animals in.

  Wulfgar and I reached the hall just as the thane stepped in and greeted the monastery’s abbot, a small, wizened old man with vigilant eyes. Abbot Turold was apparently in the middle of some dispute with Prior Edmund, an exchange that was interrupted when the thane, Wulfgar, and I entered.

  “I am Ælfgar,” the thane said in a deep voice, the kind you might expect from someone who needs to be heard above the din of battle.

  A sudden movement next to Prior Edmund made me stifle a smile. Simon had crossed himself vigorously over his chest with his right hand, and I thought I knew why. Simon had changed the Saxon name that he was given at birth, Harold, to Simon, the name of the Lord’s loyal right-hand man. In his eyes, it was probably not fitting for a monk to bear a soldier’s name: Harold meant Leader of the Army. Simon must be shitting himself to meet a Saxon thane who wore his old pagan name with such pride. Ælfgar, after all, meant Elf Spear.

  When Simon crossed himself, Abbot Turold looked at him sternly. However, the abbot was immediately calm again, welcoming Thane Ælfgar in a voice that was surprisingly steady given his age.

  “Thank you, Father,” Ælfgar said, standing confidently in the middle of the hall and not deigning to even glance at anyone else. “On behalf of my master, I demand a night’
s lodging for myself and my men.”

  That got my attention. That master could only be the Mercian jarl, Leofwine; no one else would be entitled to demand lodging. Was it a coincidence that Leofwine’s man had arrived at the monastery the same day we had? One glance at Winston told me he’d had the same thought.

  The abbot bowed his head a fraction to Ælfgar and said, “The jarl demands only what is his due. Our monastery grants this with pleasure.”

  Prior Edmund straightened, cleared his throat, and chimed in: “Although it is polite to word a just demand as a request, we concur with our brother, the abbot.”

  Ælfgar looked from Edmund to Turold in astonishment.

  “Enough!” Turold said tersely. “As I told you just before Thane Ælfgar arrived, Edmund, you and your subprior and your men are welcome to partake of our monastery’s hospitality, but as our gift. You can drop your nonsense about our monastery here in Brixworth being somehow subordinate to yours in Peterborough.”

  “Abbot Turold,” Simon said, stepping forward, his eyes radiating rage. “It is common knowledge that Brixworth was founded by brothers from Peterborough, back when our monastery was still known as Medeshamstede. The document proving this is kept in our monastery from olden times, and we have come here today to summon you, Turold, to accompany us back to the motherhouse so that we can once and for all resolve the fact that your and your brethren’s obstinate denial of our right to give you orders is wrong and in defiance of church law.”

  A deep, rumbling voice sliced through the room: “So what you’re suggesting is that we here at Saint Winfrith’s are so stupid that we can’t recognize a forged document when we see one?”

  I stiffened in surprise, as did Wulfgar. We turned to see who’d spoken and saw a broad-shouldered, relaxed-looking monk standing in the doorway to one of the chambers along the side of the hall.

  “Brother!” Edmund hissed nervously, and then he pursed his lips. “I command you to be silent when your superiors are speaking.”

  “Look, Edmund,” the broad-shouldered monk said, still sounding relaxed. I couldn’t have been the only one who noticed that Edmund was offended not to have been addressed as Prior Edmund. “As Abbot Turold just told you, you’re not my superior. Father Turold, do you wish me to be silent?”