Oathbreaker (The King's Hounds series)

by Martin Jensen

  “Shall we go?” Winston prompted.

  The moon was no longer visible, but a pink glow came from the east. I shivered in the early morning cold, as I was wearing only the breeches I’d slept in. Alwyn was fully dressed. With some annoyance I saw that Winston had had the presence of mind to bring his shirt out with him.

  “To the church, you said?” Winston asked, pulling his shirt over his head, muffling his voice.

  “Thane Ælfgar awaits you there,” Alwyn confirmed, leading the way across the dewy grass.

  We both knew better than to start asking questions. Winston raised his right eyebrow at me, as if to ask why, and I responded by shrugging my shoulders. Then we set off after Alwyn in silence, toward the west end of the church.

  The entrance was blocked by two men with their spears lowered. They raised them at the sight of Alwyn, who led us in through the entrance porch into the dark nave. Three arches at the far end of the nave led into the chancel, and when we got there, we saw some figures lit by torchlight in the apse through the great arch. As far as I could make out—it was hard to see clearly since the men cast long shadows up the walls—two torchbearers stood on either side of a group of four people, who were bent over by the altar.

  We quickly walked the length of the church to the great arch, and in the flickering torchlight I saw a man wearing the monastery’s grayish brown cowl lying on the floor in front of the altar. One look at his red tonsure told me who he was: Brother Godfrid.

  But it wasn’t the tonsure that held my attention, it was the pool of blood at his right side, covering a section of floor as wide as the entire altar. The sea of blood continued into the darkness, beyond the light from the torches, toward the wall on the north side.

  We stopped just as the four men became aware of us. Without saying hello, Winston walked right past them, leaned down over the man on the floor, and carefully looked him over. I noted the surprise in Ælfgar’s eyes then I followed my master’s lead and nodded to one of the torchbearers, signaling that he should come a step closer so that we could see better.

  As Winston had taught me, I strove to memorize as many details as possible. Once you have enough details, you can imagine the bigger picture. That’s what he always said.

  Godfrid lay on his back with his arms outspread. His dull, unseeing eyes stared up at the ceiling, his mouth distorted as if in painful mockery. His cowl was held together at his waist by a leather belt, too narrow to be a sword belt, but too expensive-looking to be part of his monastic outfit.

  I thought back. Had he been wearing that belt yesterday?

  We could find the answer to that later. Right now we needed to take note of as many details as possible.

  A splendidly ornate sword leaned against the altar. The hilt and sheath were inlaid with silver, and I knew that if I drew the weapon, the blade would be handsomely chased. Apparently the thane’s man had felt that his master’s weapon should stand upright and not lie down like the other swords.

  The candle on the altar burned brightly. The ciborium and chalice remained where they’d been yesterday afternoon.

  Wulfgar’s and my swords were lying where we’d placed them. The mute man’s sword was between them. Had he put it there? Yet another question that could be answered later.

  I looked back at the body. Godfrid was lying in the shape of a cross, which was odd. A man who was bleeding to death would not lie quietly and let it happen.

  And he had bled to death. His severed right hand was lying on his chest, over his heart. The pool of blood began as a narrow stream at the end of his severed arm.

  Someone cleared his throat loudly, which made me look up. It wasn’t Winston. He was still studying the body, but he looked over at me. Whatever it is, Halfdan, his eyes said, you take care of it.

  “Yes?” I asked, looking into Edmund’s angry face.

  “Well, don’t you have anything to say?” Edmund growled, his forehead furrowed like a freshly plowed field.

  Abbot Turold stood behind Edmund and looked at me with concern. I smiled reassuringly back at the abbot and then turned to ask Wulfgar: “Is the gate secure?”

  “The gate?” Wulfgar said.

  I nodded. “There were guards on duty out there when I got up to take a piss,” I said. “Are they still there?”

  Wulfgar glanced uncertainly at Turold, who nodded.

  “We have our own guards at the gate every night from sundown to dawn,” Turold said. “They’re unarmed, of course, but they’re there.”

  “Good,” I replied. “Wulfgar, go ask them if they saw anything.”

  “Me?” Wulfgar asked.

  I glared at him.

  “Yes, you. You’re not doing anything useful here as far as I can see. Then go to my sleeping chamber and bring me my shirt.”

  Wulfgar turned on his heel and walked back down the length of the church and out.

  “I asked you a question,” Edmund growled, still infuriated.

  “And I heard you,” I replied. Then I looked at Ælfgar. “You had us summoned?”

  Ælfgar cleared his throat. “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Ælfgar stared at me, astonished. “Why?” he repeated.

  “Yes,” I said. “We’re guests at the monastery. There are many guests staying here. Why did you summon us?”

  “Oh,” Ælfgar replied as his face lit up with understanding. “I was in Oxford for the Witenagemot.”

  Ah, when Winston and I had solved a murder for King Cnut. That answered my question.

  “Who found him?” I asked.

  “I did,” Prior Edmund began. “But I—”

  I interrupted him. “What were you doing in the church?”

  “Doing?” Edmund’s voice was shrill. “I would like to ask—”

  “We’re asking the questions here,” I retorted. The key was to pretend we were in charge. And I intended to keep it up as long as Ælfgar would allow, or at least until Winston was ready to take over. “What were you doing in the church in the middle of the night?”

  “Praying,” Edmund spluttered, his ruddy face glowing with outrage. “I’m a prior. And although this monastery hardly cares about the sacred Benedict and treats ora like dirt, some of us are faithful to our founding tenets.”

  “And yet apparently you’ve forgotten about labora,” Turold said in a voice that creaked angrily, so unlike the powerful voice he’d used the previous day.

  “Enough about that,” I said, waving my hands. “So, you came in here to pray. When?”

  “When it was time for Prime,” Edmund replied, referring to the canonical prayers said during the first hour of daylight. So not that long ago. It being the harvest month, the rays of the sun shone through the small windows now.

  “By yourself?” I asked.

  “Huh?” he said uncertainly.

  Good, I made him unsure, which suited me just fine. If he was lying, he would be more likely to trip up now.

  “When you came to pray, were you by yourself?”

  “Yes,” Edmund replied, striving to make his voice sound authoritative.

  “What about Simon?” I continued.

  “He had prayed Matins. We figured,” Edmund went on, now with definite traces of uncertainty in his voice, “that since the brothers here don’t say the liturgies at the canonical hours, no one would mind if only one of us were in the church.”

  Winston stood up and gave me an urgent look, as if I couldn’t think for myself.

  “So Simon was here for Matins last night? By himself?”

  Edmund nodded.

  “With Godfrid?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” Edmund said.

  Now it was my turn to be surprised.

  “Of course not?” I asked.

  Edmund explained patiently: “Simon left our chamber and came over here. Godfrid was already here before that.”

  “So they didn’t pray together?” I queried.

  Edmund’s face became uncertain. “I don’t know.”
<
br />   “You don’t?”

  “I haven’t talked to Simon,” he snapped.

  “And where is Simon now?” I could see in the dim light that Winston still stood, with his eyes trained on Edmund.

  “I don’t know,” Edmund said. “Why?”

  Was the man an imbecile?

  “Yesterday Godfrid threatened Simon. Then last night someone killed Godfrid. Think about it.”

  “That’s… that’s…” Edmund’s voice choked with indignation. “That’s unheard of.”

  “One man killing another?” I imbued my voice with scorn. “Definitely not.”

  “Blaming a man of God for such a gruesome act committed in the house of the Lord,” Edmund said, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his cowl.

  “Someone did it,” I said.

  Edmund sighed. “Yes, and that’s terrible, whoever the culprit is. But to suggest that Simon… no, it’s unthinkable.”

  From complete conviction to doubt. I let it sit for a moment, then asked, “Well, where is he then?”

  “He was sleeping when I left,” Edmund said with another sigh.

  I looked at Winston. He shook his head; I didn’t need to go to their guesthouse to check. Instead Winston stepped forward and said, “Abbot Turold?”

  The old abbot nodded, his eyes moist.

  “Who informed you of what happened?”

  “The prior sent someone to my chambers.”

  So Edmund had recognized after all that Turold must be informed as soon as possible. Or maybe it suited him to let the old man take responsibility for this crime.

  “And?” Winston prompted.

  “When I s… saw this,” Turold’s mouth trembled, “I sent a brother to fetch the thane.”

  “Did anyone look in on Godfrid last night?” Winston asked.

  “I thought about it, but then…” Turold hesitated.

  Winston gave him a look of encouragement.

  “I was mad at him,” Turold admitted. “Not for what he’d said. For the way he said it. It is outrageous to threaten another person that way.”

  I suspected Edmund would say that the outrageous part was that the threatened person was a monk, but I remained silent.

  “So you didn’t come over here?” Winston asked gently.

  Turold shook his head. “I thought it would do Godfrid some good to learn humility in private.”

  “Because he was not a humble person?” Winston said.

  Turold nodded in silence.

  To my surprise, Winston left it at that and turned to Ælfgar. “And may I ask what brought you here?”

  Ælfgar looked up in surprise.

  “I ride at my jarl’s behest,” he said.

  Winston surprised me again when, after a moment, he nodded.

  “But you want me to investigate the murder?” Winston asked.

  “That is my wish,” Ælfgar said, looking at the body. “Until…”

  “Until?” Winston’s voice sounded surprised.

  “I need to send a message to the jarl’s reeve. In my opinion, until he decides to take over the case, you’re the best person to take charge.”

  “Let’s hope it’s resolved soon, then,” Winston said.

  I stifled a smile. Winston felt he wasn’t just the best person until the reeve took over, but the best person for the job overall. I was inclined to agree with him.

  We heard footsteps approaching through the church.

  “The gate is closed,” Wulfgar announced. “And no one came through it all night.” Wulfgar handed me my shirt, gasping for breath. He had apparently hurried.

  Everyone realized what that news meant. The murderer must be one of the men who’d been present in the hall yesterday afternoon.

  Chapter 12

  Wulfgar and Alwyn!” Winston said. “Could I ask you to go to the door and make sure that no one enters or exits until I give the word?”

  They went, but not until Ælfgar had nodded his tacit approval, giving Alwyn permission to obey Winston.

  “And I…,” Edmund began. He paused to glare at the hand Winston held up to silence him. Then Edmund continued anyway: “I would like—”

  “To get this murder cleared up, of course,” Winston said. “And to that end, I will need a little peace and quiet so I can work. Would you all be so kind as to leave the torches here but give us the room?”

  Abbot Turold looked gloomily from the dead man to Winston, then shrugged with apparent acceptance, and turned away. He pulled his hood up over his head, possibly to keep the evils of the world out.

  Edmund, on the other hand, stood his ground.

  “I—” he began to protest.

  “Now, Prior!” Winston ordered. Winston gestured with his head, sending me over to Edmund. I put my hand on his arm. He glared at me, tore his arm free, and stiffly followed Abbot Turold, who had reached the great arch. The torchbearers followed them, but stopped at the door.

  Winston’s eyes now fell to Ælfgar, who had stood by calmly, watching the clergymen go.

  “You, too, Ælfgar,” Winston said quietly.

  “Me?” the nobleman said, looking at Winston in surprise. “You’re ordering me out?”

  Winston nodded.

  “Does that mean that you…?” Ælfgar paused. He had realized the obvious: until the murderer was found, everyone—including him—was a suspect.

  I furtively studied Ælfgar from the side. He clenched and unclenched his jaw muscles. He pursed his lips, and the muscles in his right forearm flexed as he clenched his fist.

  It is difficult for the eagle when the sparrows oppose it, as my brother once said.

  Ælfgar bit his lip, then shook his head and strode down the length of the church. I followed him and took the torches from the two men at the door. Then I stuck my head out and asked the two guards on duty outside to make sure no one entered the church. They peered uncertainly at Ælfgar, who nodded briefly.

  Then I returned, handed one of the torches to Winston, and pulled my shirt on over my head. “Are we looking for rope?”

  He gave me a look of approval.

  “No,” Winston said. “I agree that he didn’t voluntarily lie still while someone chopped off his hand, any more than he remained still while he bled to death. But I don’t think he was tied up. Look here.”

  Winston held the torch over the dead man’s face, and in the glowing torchlight I saw a bluish lump on the corpse’s forehead.

  “My guess is that we’ll find a similar swelling on the back of his head,” Winston said.

  Winston waited while I moved the severed hand from the dead man’s chest and set it on the floor. Then we turned him together and saw a two-inch-wide mark from a blow across the back of his head.

  “So he was praying. On his knees?” I guessed.

  “Yes,” Winston said and looked around. “Either he didn’t hear the person approaching through the church, or he thought it was someone coming to join him in prayer.”

  “So it was easy for whoever it was to whack him on the back of the head. Then while he was unconscious, someone chopped off his hand and let him bleed to death.” I looked around. “What was he struck with?”

  Winston raised an eyebrow. “How should I know? A stick? A cane? Whatever.”

  “Maybe a spear shaft? Well, no,” I said, thinking aloud. “Everyone had to hand in their weapons.” My eyes met Winston’s as we both came to the same realization. “The guards outside the door have spears,” I said.

  He nodded, but said, “They’re not going anywhere.” We could question them after we were finished in here.

  “But,” I said after a brief pause, “why kill him that way? Why not just run him through with a sword?”

  Winston gestured past the dead man to where he might have been praying.

  “I don’t know how deep in prayer he was,” Winston said, “but maybe he would have noticed if his attacker had come in past him and picked up one of the weapons from the altar?”

  “The murderer could have sm
uggled in a sword.”

  “Not likely, but possible.” Winston gestured for me to follow him to the altar. “Unsheathe the swords.”

  I started with Ælfgar’s. His blade was every bit as finely adorned as I’d expected but showed no trace of having been used. Then I drew my own sword. We saw the steely gray gleam of the blade in the torchlight. The mute man’s sword was next. Even as I grasped the hilt, I knew I held the murder weapon. The hilt stuck to my hand. I pulled the weapon from the sheath. The blade was covered with a greasy red film. I held out the weapon, toward the light of Winston’s torch. The blood formed a herringbone pattern that extended down the blade. The murderer either hadn’t cared about cleaning the blade or hadn’t had time to wipe it off.

  In response to Winston’s nod, I pulled Wulfgar’s sword as well, just to be sure. Not a drop of blood.

  “The man was struck down and then had his hand chopped off.” Winston stared at the severed hand, which lay pale on the stone floor. “That raises a number of questions.”

  “And one in particular,” I said, nodding.

  Winston looked at me questioningly.

  “Why take the middle sword?” I asked. “Wouldn’t you expect the one on the right to have been used?”

  “If the man was right-handed, that would have been closest, yes.”

  I nodded.

  “And a left-handed man would have taken the one on the left,” I said. “But no one would reach for the one in the middle, would they? Unless,” I paused to contemplate, and then continued, “unless he wanted to throw suspicion on the mute man. I suppose he would have a hard time defending himself since he can’t speak.”

  Winston didn’t say anything. A few moments later, he nodded toward the church door.

  “Have the guards fetch the tongueless man,” he instructed.

  One of the spearmen obeyed me immediately, handing his weapon to his colleague—so much for respecting the rules of the monastery—and striding off toward the guesthouse. I decided to make use of the time until he returned.

  “You’re defying the abbot’s rule that no one bear arms inside the palisade,” I pointed out to the guard.

  “My master ordered us to fetch our spears,” the spearman said, eyeing me apathetically.

  “When?”