Oathbreaker (The King's Hounds series)

by Martin Jensen

  I noticed a movement at my side. It was Elvina, who was apparently done with the last chicken.

  “Are they in love?” she asked.

  “I think that’s safe to say, yes. Listen, sweetie, do you think you could fetch us a little more ale?”

  The pitcher foamed over with ale. Estrid wasn’t being stingy with us, thanks to Winston’s little lie. All the same, I managed to finish the entire pitcher before they tore themselves loose from their embrace and returned to the bench.

  “So you rode up here protected by the armor of love,” I said innocently, my eyes on Alfilda. She asked me what I meant.

  “You rode alone through a region that is plagued by bands of robbers,” I explained.

  But no, it turned out she’d joined a division of housecarls who were bringing a message to the king’s consort, Ælfgifu, in Northampton.

  “Although,” she said, “I did ride on alone from there, when I was told you’d come this way. I didn’t think I’d catch up to you two until Peterborough, but then I saw you come walking across the square.”

  Winston didn’t say anything. He just sat there holding her hand. So I pointed out that we had better find someplace for Alfilda to stay, since it would hardly go over well if we tried to sneak her into the monastery.

  I looked around and spotted Elvina, who hadn’t gone far. She sat on an overturned bucket. We were way too exciting for her to want to miss anything.

  “Do you think your mother has a room we could rent?” I asked her.

  And that was that. Alfilda received room and board at the farm for a reasonable price, and she was already chatting away comfortably with Estrid by the time I dragged a reluctant Winston back up to the monastery. We’d heard horse hooves at last, telling us that Ælfgar had returned from his ride.

  “Well, there is one thing you can be happy about,” I told him as we walked in through the palisade gate.

  He gave me a questioning look.

  “I found the Lady Path, so you won’t need to sneak through the gate tonight.”

  Chapter 21

  We spotted Ælfgar’s man Alwyn as soon as we set foot on the monastery’s lawn. We walked straight over to him and asked where his master was.

  “In his chamber,” Alwyn said.

  Winston politely asked him to inform the thane that we wished to speak to him.

  It was news to me that Ælfgar had a room of his own. Not that I was surprised; as a nobleman, he could insist on not having to share sleeping quarters with snoring and snorting men, but the information was not insignificant. Unlike the rest of us, he would have been able to come and go as he pleased without necessarily disturbing anyone else.

  While we waited, I teased Winston, who leaned against the corner of the building, lost in thought.

  I’d known that his and Alfilda’s relationship was serious enough; he had sometimes openly referred to her as “my woman.” Still, I was surprised by her display of feelings for him.

  It had obviously surprised him, too.

  She was a stout-hearted woman, our Alfilda. Widowed at a young age, she’d inherited the inn and tavern from her husband. Alewife was not an occupation for faint-hearted women—our stay at her inn during the Witenagemot in Oxford had made that abundantly clear to me—but she made it look easy.

  She was a woman of action, too. I suspected she’d sold her property decisively—and probably not cheaply—the moment she had decided to burn her bridges and wager her future on my master. She was a mature woman, who clearly had not hesitated to set her course north, toward unknown territory, to find Winston.

  And now I knew she was a woman of stamina. She must have ridden from Oxford to Northampton in one day. The whole time we were in Oxford, I never saw her on horseback. And yet she’d managed to keep up with a platoon of housecarls, who were not out for a little casual trot around the park. When they’d reached their destination, she continued riding on her own, not even knowing how far she’d have to go.

  Finally, she was a shy woman. A woman who—despite all her years as an alewife and her age of nearly forty—still had not been able to just tell Winston outright what I had guessed she wanted to say as soon as she opened her mouth.

  Are they in love? Elvina had asked.

  Alfilda was. That much was clear. I had no doubt that Winston also was, the way he stood there with that dopey, dreamy look on his face.

  As Harding had put it: Rotted wood burns hot once it finally takes.

  When Alwyn reappeared to bring us to Ælfgar, I cleared my throat to wake Winston from his reveries. Winston shook the cobwebs out of his head, looked at me with clear eyes, nodded, and said, “Well, it’s time to tackle yet another nobleman.”

  I laughed, glad to see him back to his old self now that work called.

  Ælfgar had changed his clothes after his ride. Over dark-gray breeches, he now wore a yellow kirtle with embroidery around the neck. A thin gold chain hung across his chest, and a silver belt circled his waist. He didn’t wear an arm ring, unlike his man Alwyn. Instead, he demonstrated his nobility and the rewards of his bravery through his style of dress.

  A bed sat against the wall. Late autumn sun shone through the window onto an elegant table and four chairs.

  A silver pitcher and four goblets of the same metal sat on the table. The thane invited us to take our seats, and Alwyn filled the goblets, passing the first to his master and then one to each guest before taking the last one for himself and sitting down.

  I glanced at Winston, whose mouth curled into a faint smile. He, too, had noticed that they found emphasizing rank more important than displaying hospitality.

  “I hear you haven’t apprehended the murderer yet.” Ælfgar’s voice did not sound as deep here in the room as it had the evening before in the chapter house.

  “Then you have not been told a lie,” Winston replied. His words and his tone indicated he was not in a subservient mood.

  “And yet the case seems quite straightforward to me,” Ælfgar said.

  “Really?” Winston said, leaning back in his chair, which, like the thane’s, was equipped with a backrest. “How so?”

  “One man challenges another and pays with his life,” Ælfgar said, a bite to both his words and his tone.

  “So Simon is the murderer?” Winston asked.

  “Who else?” Ælfgar said, making a sweeping gesture with his hand.

  “I thought you might be able to help me with that,” Winston said, leaning forward a bit.

  “Me?” Ælfgar said. “I have nothing to do with the monastery.”

  “You’re staying here.”

  “Because the monastery is obligated to provide my master with hospitality.”

  “And your master is Leofwine,” Winston said.

  “My master is Leofwine of Mercia, yes,” Ælfgar confirmed. Both men were aloof but polite.

  “And your business here?” Winston inquired.

  “Is for Jarl Leofwine,” Ælfgar replied.

  “Leofwine uses the Danish title of jarl, not the Saxon title of ealdorman?” Winston asked.

  “He goes by ealdorman to some,” Ælfgar replied, his cool look matching the chill that had crept into his voice.

  “But he calls himself jarl?” Winston continued.

  Ælfgar shrugged dismissively.

  “Ælfgar,” Winston said, leaning forward again. “I assure you, I just want to solve the murder, as you yourself have asked me to do.” As I mentioned, Winston could lie quite adeptly when it suited his purposes. “Are you convinced that nothing having to do with your business may have resulted in the murder?”

  Ælfgar stared, his mouth open.

  “To do with my business? For the jarl? I can assure you, Winston the Illuminator, that that could in no way interest a foul-mouthed monk.”

  Winston gave me a half wink, an unnecessary signal.

  “You didn’t like him?” Winston noted.

  “My feelings on the matter are irrelevant. I do not concern myself with mo
nks.”

  “But you found him impudent?”

  Ælfgar shrugged. “Didn’t we all? He interrupted his abbot and swore at one of the monastery’s guests. Even Abbot Turold, who is among the mildest of mild-mannered men, felt obliged to do something to punish the man.”

  “True enough,” Winston said. “And you knew him?”

  “Knew him?” Ælfgar said. “I’d never seen him before.”

  “You hadn’t? But you know Turold?”

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve made use of my master’s entitlement to hospitality.”

  The questions and answers followed, each in rapid succession without so much as a heartbeat’s pause in between.

  “So you must have run into Godfrid before?” Winston asked.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “But I was told that he’d been here at the monastery for a good year. When were you here last?”

  Ælfgar cocked his head and looked at Alwyn, who until now had sat stiffly and silently in his chair.

  “Shortly before midsummer,” Alwyn said.

  Ælfgar nodded.

  “And you didn’t meet Godfrid then?” Winston asked.

  Ælfgar shook his head.

  “But what about Erik?” Winston inquired.

  “Erik?” Ælfgar looked around, as if he were expecting to find a fifth man whose presence he had not been aware of.

  “Godfrid’s name was Erik before he became a monk,” Winston explained, leaning back again.

  Ælfgar was silent. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes halfway. Winston and I both watched him, but I also noticed that Alwyn was watching Winston.

  “Wasn’t he a redhead?” Ælfgar eventually asked.

  Winston nodded and Ælfgar continued: “I’ve known a fair number of people named Erik, but none of them were redheads as far as I recall. Alwyn?”

  Alwyn slowly shook his head; then his eyes opened a little wider.

  “What about Erik Sigurdson?” he asked.

  “The thane from Jutland?” Ælfgar asked skeptically. “But he died at Ottanford.”

  “Oh, right. I forgot,” Alwyn said quickly.

  Alwyn’s response was fast. So fast that he might have been given a sign. Surely Winston wasn’t the only one who could tell a lie.

  “And his property went to the monastery in Ramsey,” Ælfgar continued. Then a teasing look came into Ælfgar’s eyes. “That is no farther than a day’s ride from here. Send your servant over there, Winston, and you’ll have it confirmed for you.”

  Servant! I glared at him, which did not go over well.

  Winston looked down at the floor as he tugged on his nose. His shoulders tense, he paused a bit, thinking, before deciding to pry into the thane’s business.

  “Who were those men you met with today?” Winston asked.

  And to think he had just claimed he was only interested in solving the murder.

  The thane was furious. His cheeks flamed, but the look he gave Winston was icy. Ælfgar slowly turned to look at me.

  “Did you have your man eavesdrop on me?” he asked accusingly.

  “No one’s been eavesdropping on you,” Winston said, calmly shaking his head. “But I know you met two men who came from the west. From Mercia?”

  Ælfgar’s mouth was a bitter line.

  “You rode out without your sword, Ælfgar. So it wasn’t someone you feared. Friends perhaps?”

  Ælfgar stood up.

  “I rode today to the shire reeve, who approved my suggestion that you should investigate Brother Godfrid’s murder. Don’t let me regret that choice, Winston the Illuminator.”

  Ælfgar gestured with his head toward the door, signaling that the interview was over. Alwyn promptly obeyed his master and opened the door to show us out. I saw Winston hesitate, but then he stood up, and we left the room. In the doorway Winston turned and said, “In a murder investigation, even noblemen have to put up with answering uncomfortable questions, Ælfgar. If you do not accept that, you will regret having asked me to take the case. Would you like me to withdraw?”

  Ælfgar struggled to control his breathing. His chest heaved and his eyes never left Winston’s. Finally he shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “But understand that I will only answer questions that pertain to the investigation.”

  “As long as we both agree that I decide what pertains to the case,” Winston replied calmly, and turned to leave.

  Chapter 22

  It must be acknowledged that the monastery set a generous table. The tongueless Ulf got to sit with the youngest of the monks at dinner, and as far as I could tell from my place between Brother Edgar and Wulfgar, he was provided for every bit as well as the rest of us.

  He clearly had a hard time eating. He cut his meat—a fatty lamb steak, which made the whole room smell like rosemary—into very small pieces with his dagger and placed them one by one on equally small pieces of bread. Then he worked on each mouthful with his molars, his jaws tense. Then he swallowed, which was obviously difficult without a tongue to help him.

  Winston didn’t eat with us.

  After our conversation with Ælfgar, we returned to the church, where the body had been duly dressed and laid out on a bier before the altar. It was dark in the cold stone building, now that the afternoon was more than half-over, and the altar candle had been put out to reflect the church’s desecration. The candle would remain dark until the bishop found time to reconsecrate the church.

  Winston and I stood on either side of the great arch with our backs to the rock wall. The stones felt cool through my shirt, and a dry smell of lime hit my nostrils and made me sneeze.

  “What are they going to do with him?” I asked, gesturing toward Godfrid’s body with my chin.

  “Bury him,” Winston said in surprise. “That’s what people usually do with the dead.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said, hiding my irritation. “But can they do that from here in the church if it’s been desecrated?”

  “Ah well, I don’t know. At any rate, what do you think about our nobleman?”

  “He seemed like most noblemen,” I said with a laugh. “Cooperative until we started asking him about the really interesting stuff.”

  “Was he lying?” Winston asked.

  “Ugh,” I said with a shrug. “Of course he was lying. About something or other that we can’t see yet. Maybe he was lying just to keep quiet. Maybe he knows something he thinks we shouldn’t know about.”

  “And his business that had to be kept secret?” Winston asked.

  “He thinks it’s none of our business,” I said. “Or maybe it’s just the kind of—possibly shady—business we suspect. But how are we going to find out?”

  “Well,” Winston said with a snort, “he was very quick to finger Simon.”

  “Of course. Simon is the only one who openly made an enemy of Godfrid. So for everyone who was present, it is obvious to finger him.”

  “But if you were the murderer,” Winston said, “then Simon would also be an obvious person to finger, to keep the suspicion off yourself.”

  “Ding! You rang the bell,” I said, nodding supportively.

  Winston gave me a curmudgeonly look, then leaned his head back to rest against the stonework. We both stood there in silence until Winston abruptly straightened up.

  “Enough of this,” he said. “I’m going to go see Alfilda.”

  That came as a bit of a surprise, but I wisely suppressed the smile that came to my lips.

  Darkness had begun to fall outside. A warm, golden dusk bathed the monastery buildings in an autumnal glow. A group of spearmen walked out the gate. Ælfgar’s, I noted. So they had probably been ordered to go find food and lodging in the village, as the monastery was obligated to provide only one night of hospitality.

  I accompanied Winston to the gate.

  “Should I expect you back tonight?” I asked.

  He didn’t respond.

  For a moment I toyed with the idea of walking
with him so that I could take a peek at Elvina’s sister, Ebba, but I pushed the thought aside. The chances that her father would let me anywhere near her were too small, so although I would have gladly taken a closer look at what she was hiding behind her blue kerchief, I refrained.

  On my way across the grass to the hall, the thought of her kerchief stayed with me. There was something about it that bothered me.

  Ælfgar still sat in the place of honor in the hall. Regardless of what the monastery was or was not obligated to provide the jarl’s soldiers, the rules of politeness dictated that the brothers offer certain things to a visiting nobleman attending to that same jarl’s business.

  Neither Edmund nor Simon were present, and when I politely asked the brother waiting on my table, he explained that the Benedictines had asked for permission to remain in their chamber, where they would spend the time praying for the deceased.

  “How nice of them,” I mumbled to Edgar, who scratched his red ring of hair, but otherwise remained silent, concentrating on his lamb.

  Wulfgar sat across from me, not next to me as on the previous evening. There was more room at the table now that the thane’s spearmen were absent. Wulfgar had a healthy appetite, presumably because he’d drilled his men all day.

  The monks who had eaten at our table the previous night were absent, too. I asked Edgar if some of his brothers had been told to fast. He looked at me, puzzled, so I explained.

  “No,” Edgar said, spitting a piece of bone into his hand. “They’re tending the sick.”

  Then he went on to explain that he and Brother Hubert, the stocky monk who had been pointed out to me earlier as an attendant to the ill, were in charge of the monastery’s hospital. Edgar examined the ill, decided how they should be treated, and measured the medicine for them, while Hubert was in charge of actually administering their care. The other brothers who didn’t have duties in the kitchen or the large garden all took part in a cleverly designed watch schedule so that someone always attended the ill, day and night.

  “And you’re also the prior?” I asked.

  Edgar looked at me blankly.