Oathbreaker (The King's Hounds series)

by Martin Jensen

  I looked around. There was no one in the small hallway outside the abbot’s chamber, but monks could presumably walk by at any time, so I shook my head.

  “Let’s go to my room,” I suggested.

  Winston didn’t comment on the fact that I now referred to the room as mine instead of ours. He merely proceeded calmly, holding Alfilda’s hand. On our way, I casually asked if they could fill me in on what Turold had wanted.

  “Permission to bury Brother Godfrid, since the corpse is starting to smell,” Winston said.

  “Surely the abbot could have just decided that on his own?” I said, peering over at Winston distrustfully.

  “He did, but he’s a polite man, the good Turold, so he wanted to know if we still needed access to the deceased.” Winston pushed the door to my room open.

  Once inside, Winston and Alfilda sat down on the bed that had been Winston’s while I made sure the door was closed all the way and then took a seat on my own.

  “Well?” Winston said expectantly.

  I recounted my conversation with Elvina. As I spoke, they sat leaning together, Alfilda with her eyes half-closed, Winston watching me attentively.

  “So I think the murderer is very clear,” I said. Godfrid’s true identity was my first piece of news. My second was the identity of the murderer. I waited to give them a chance to guess this for themselves.

  “Ælfgar?” Winston suggested, tugging at his nose.

  “Who else? He’s the only thane who was staying in the monastery the night of the murder. None of us know his family, but I wonder if he won’t turn out to have kin from north of the River Humber? After all, they marry for power, influence, and silver, these noblemen.”

  Winston grinned at me in amusement.

  “I was born a nobleman,” I said, gesturing theatrically with my right hand. “I do know how they work.”

  “But Ælfgar was willing to swear,” Winston said, shaking his head thoughtfully.

  “No,” Alfilda replied, shaking her head more vigorously. “He was willing to swear that what he said about Eadwin was the truth.”

  “Exactly,” I said, sitting up straighter in excitement. “And no one asked Ælfgar what he didn’t say. Think about it, Winston! Ælfgar is Jarl Leofwine’s trusted man, who’s sent to the very edge of the jarl’s territory to fetch the man’s son Eadwin back home. That same son has discovered that a man who is trying to hide behind a cowl, Brother Godfrid, is actually a nithing, none other than the man who led Uhtred to his certain death even though he’d sworn him peace and safe-conduct. And furthermore, Eadwin knows that the thane he rides home with, Thane Ælfgar, is related by blood to Uhtred, the victim of the betrayal. It makes perfect sense that Eadwin would share what he’d learned with Ælfgar as they rode back home.”

  “And then Ælfgar asked us to stand in for the reeve and investigate the murder?” Winston objected skeptically.

  “Maybe that was a diversionary tactic. Or lust for power,” I suggested. “Both of them afflictions noblemen are known to be susceptible to.”

  “But,” Alfilda said. She stood up, walked over to the window, and looked out. “There is another possibility.”

  Winston and I turned to look at her.

  “Prior Edmund. He’s noble-born, isn’t he?” Her gray eyes looked from Winston to me.

  I nodded grudgingly.

  “Wulfgar told me he was from the North, that his family has owned land up below the Scots for many generations.”

  “Northumbria, in other words,” Alfilda said.

  “But Edmund’s family is Saxon,” I said. “Uhtred was an Angle.”

  Winston gave me an almost pitying look, and then I remembered Wulfgar’s words: Noblemen are first and foremost noblemen. Only after that do they become Saxons or Danes.

  “Edmund is conceited and hot tempered, but a murderer?” I said. I just didn’t believe it.

  “He was alone in the church with Godfrid,” Winston said.

  “After Godfrid was already dead,” I said.

  “Or so he claims,” Winston pointed out.

  He was right about that. We had only Edmund’s word that he’d found the monk dead. We had to concede that the case wasn’t solved yet.

  “We’re going to have to talk to them both again,” Winston said, getting up off the bed.

  “Who do we interview first?” I asked, looking from Winston to Alfilda.

  “Whichever one we encounter first,” Winston said.

  He opened the door and we made our way back out into the daylight. The storm clouds had passed and it was sunny once again. The brightness felt refreshing after the rain.

  The question of whom we would interview first was answered when we saw five men coming over the grass toward the monastery hall.

  Ælfgar and Alwyn both wore their traveling clothes and walked with their legs spread slightly, the way even seasoned riders find relief right after a long ride. They walked side by side in silence. Thane Ælfgar never found it necessary to emphasize his rank or authority by walking ahead of his spearman.

  Edmund and Simon walked just to their left, following a tall monk I’d seen in the refectory but hadn’t paid any attention to. Edmund’s round face was scrunched up in rage, an emotion also evident in Simon’s sharp eyes, which—the way the sun hit them—looked black.

  No one noticed when we joined them. When they reached the door of Turold’s chamber, which the tall brother opened for us, we followed them in as if we also had been summoned by the abbot.

  Which, it turned out, was indeed why Edmund and Simon were there. To their immense consternation, Turold had summoned them.

  The door had scarcely swung shut behind us when Edmund proclaimed—his voice trembling with indignation—that he was not in the habit of allowing himself to be summoned by any old novice. His outburst earned him just a brief nod from Turold’s head.

  Simon noticed us and lurched back—to get away from Alfilda, who had positioned herself right next to him—only to discover that he was then very close to Ælfgar, which seemed to make him suffer as much as if Alfilda had put her hand on his arm.

  It couldn’t be easy, I thought, being equally afraid of women and noblemen with elfish names. For a moment the thought remained with me, but then Turold started talking, and it drifted out of my head again.

  “I will not apologize for having guests summoned when it suits me in my own monastery,” Turold said. On previous occasions I had thought Turold sounded like a weak old man, but he surprised me again by speaking firmly, as someone who doesn’t brook contradiction.

  All the same, Edmund opened his mouth, presumably to protest that he wasn’t a guest. Turold raised his hand and stopped him.

  “I asked you to come to my chambers once and for all to quash this laughable claim that we should be subject to Peterborough,” Turold said.

  I heard the two Benedictines gasp for breath, but Turold’s hand silenced them again before they could speak.

  “We’ve known for a long time that your alleged document, on which you base your claim, is a forgery, but we couldn’t prove it until today,” Turold said.

  The two monks looked at each other, dumbfounded, apparently too shocked to even respond.

  “This summer we expressed our grievance to Jarl Leofwine’s man, Ælfgar, who promised to help us if he could,” Turold said, and then turned to Ælfgar. “Perhaps you’d like to take this part yourself?”

  Ælfgar stepped forward.

  “Although it is well-known that the church prefers to handle its own matters,” Ælfgar said, “my master, Jarl Leofwine, became concerned when I told him about the dispute between your two institutions. Just as kings and noblemen should keep the peace for the benefit of the land, so too should the church strive to maintain peace in its own house. And as the jarl is obligated to restore the peace in his jarldom if someone breaks it, so too is he responsible for rehabilitating justice when it is trampled underfoot. And when the church is in dispute with itself, it falls to he who w
ears the sword in the king’s name to reestablish the peace, when the church’s own magnates fail to do so.”

  Edmund was about to say something, but one look from Ælfgar stopped him.

  “So I sent men out to scour the land and investigate, hoping to track down someone who could give a definitive answer to the question of whether the document you Peterborough brothers refer to could be authentic. Word reached me a few weeks ago that you could be proven wrong. I returned to Brixworth as soon as I could.”

  I heard a half-stifled gasp from Simon, but Edmund managed to compose himself enough to speak first.

  “This is outrageous,” Edmund spluttered.

  “No,” Ælfgar said, calmly shaking his head and reaching into his tunic. “Here is a letter from Archbishop Wulfstan, which reached me today from Hampton. If you would be so kind as to read it.”

  He handed the document to Edmund, who irately noted the wax seal at the bottom. I looked from Edmund to Ælfgar, trying to put my thumb on my fleeting thought from before—there was something about the mention of the archbishop—but to no avail. Edmund pressed his lips together tightly as he read and then passed the letter to Simon, whose head was boiling red.

  I thought like crazy, trying to fathom what Leofwine’s interest in this conflict was. Then Winston whispered in my ear. “Peterborough is not in the portion of Mercia that belongs to Leofwine.”

  Now I understood. It was in Leofwine’s interest to protect the monasteries that were in his jarldom, to show he could take care of everyone who fell under his power.

  It was a trivial added bonus that he happened to be driving a wedge between a competing jarl and a monastery under that man’s dominion.

  “Do you accept the archbishop’s letter?” Ælfgar asked gently.

  “The archbishop is the head of the church, not the monasteries,” Edmund spluttered, panting like a man on the verge of flinging himself into a fistfight.

  “Just read the letter again.” Thane Ælfgar spoke calmly. “As Wulfstan writes, Brixworth monastery was founded by King Oswig with the clear clause that it was a free, independent monastery, which could invoke the archbishop’s protection if anyone encroached on it. I don’t know much about church matters, but I’ve been told that this is a rare, although not unheard of, setup.”

  Ælfgar looked pointedly at Edmund and asked, “Am I right?”

  “You… that’s…,” Edmund stammered, licking his lips.

  “Am I right?” Ælfgar asked again, emphasizing each word.

  “This arrangement has been seen before,” Edmund confirmed grudgingly.

  “And you accept the archbishop’s statement that such is the situation with Brixworth?” Ælfgar inquired.

  The two Benedictines exchanged glances.

  I almost pitied them. They were in somewhat of a predicament. Even the most powerful head of a monastery would have to think twice before going up against the Archbishop of York, King Cnut’s lawgiver, the pope’s representative in England, and the king’s most trusted man beyond his circle of jarls.

  The reason for Archbishop Wulfstan’s enthusiastic support of the monastery in Brixworth was brilliantly clear, even to me. Like other churchmen, he eyed the conceited conduct of the Benedictines with concern, and an opportunity to assert the church’s overlordship was too good to let slip through his hands.

  “Do you?” Ælfgar repeated with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

  Edmund bit his lip. Simon shuffled his feet but then stood still again.

  “Yes,” Edmund eventually said with a slight nod.

  “And we won’t be hearing any more about this matter from either you or your abbot?” Turold asked.

  “The matter is dead,” Edmund said, looking like someone forced him to drink vinegar.

  Simon shuddered with barely suppressed rage and took a step forward until he bumped into Ælfgar, which caused the monk to stiffen. I leaned over to Alfilda and whispered to her that in Simon’s eyes it must be darn near the work of the devil that Abbot Turold was receiving assistance from the elves.

  She had no idea what I meant.

  “Ælfgar,” I explained, “his name means Elf Spear, or Protector of the Elves.”

  Her eyes grew wide as she contemplated this. Then understanding slid over her face, finally allowing me to put my finger on my previous errant idea. I turned to Winston, who was just explaining that the Benedictines would unfortunately have to stay a little while longer.

  “No, Winston,” I said, “just let them go.”

  “But…” He looked at me, perplexed.

  “We were wrong, Winston,” Alfilda told him.

  “Yes,” I continued, feeling confident now. “It’s not Ælfgar or these little monastic farts we need to talk to.”

  Chapter 32

  I thought only Winston would hear my remark, but in my excitement I forgot to muffle my voice, so everyone heard me describe the Benedictines as “monastic farts.” Edmund—who was quite obviously thirsting for some outlet for his suppressed rage, now additionally fueled by humiliation—erupted and demanded that I apologize.

  I was inclined to ignore him, preoccupied as I was with the idea taking deeper and deeper root in me. As memory after memory popped into my head, I became more and more convinced it was true. To think I hadn’t seen it before!

  I bit my lip in disappointment at my blindness and was on the verge of shoving Edmund, who had stepped right up against me. Edmund stammered for a second time that I apologize. Winston’s voice stopped me. He sharply ordered me to apologize for my choice of words.

  I wanted to shrug the whole thing off, but one look from Winston made me think better of it. Plus, compared to what lay ahead, an apology was so profoundly trivial. So I bowed my head in feigned remorse to Edmund and apologized for having called him and his companion names that were not suitable for use where others could hear them.

  For a brief instant he looked like he might demand I take it back altogether, but then he shook his head, turned back to Turold, and bid him farewell.

  “We shall no longer strain the hospitality between our two monasteries,” Edmund declared, attempting to sound superior, and then he left, followed by Simon, who was green with bile. Edmund turned around in the doorway and gave us all one final poisonous look. Ælfgar seemed puzzled.

  I suggested to Winston that he, Alfilda, and I should withdraw. Turold nodded to us and we headed for the door. I half expected Ælfgar to try to stop us, but he remained calm, and we reached my room without either him or Alwyn running after us and demanding to know what was going on.

  Once back in my room, Winston sat down and stared at the floor. Alfilda and I exchanged glances, and then she said that we knew who had murdered Godfrid.

  Winston looked at me, and I nodded.

  “I should have seen it a long time ago,” I said. “Meanwhile Alfilda, who hasn’t had the same experiences I’ve had, caught it right away once she realized what the names meant.”

  “So you’re both sure?” Winston asked.

  Alfilda and I didn’t even need to look at each other, both simultaneously blurting out our yeses.

  Winston leaned back but found nothing to support his back, so he scooted all the way back against the wall, wiggled his backside comfortably into the mattress, and then looked at me.

  “Do tell,” he said.

  I peeked at Alfilda, who had walked over to the window. She stared out, so I looked at Winston.

  “The names are the final proof,” I said, “but I should have suspected them much sooner.”

  “As should I, I suppose,” Winston mumbled. “If it’s as obvious as all that.”

  “It’s not obvious until you see it, and even then you have to put a number of small details together to see the big picture,” I said, winking at him. One of his favorite claims was that, unlike mine, his career had taught him how to look at all the fine details and put together the big picture. “Besides, unlike me, you haven’t spent hours talking to Wulfgar, although there
is one thing you should have noticed, as should I.”

  Winston looked puzzled. I gave him some time, and then he suddenly nodded.

  “He wears a sword,” Winston said.

  “Exactly,” I said. “He’s not a thane. He’s a spearman, and yet he wears a sword.”

  “As does Ulf, the tongueless man,” Winston said, looking over at Alfilda, who was still looking out the window.

  “We don’t know the first thing about Ulf,” I pointed out. “He could actually be a thane, but it’s not so unusual for a common soldier to win a sword in battle and wear it. Well, as long as he doesn’t need the money he could make from selling it. But Wulfgar wears the sword as part of his regular attire. That is something thanes do, not spearmen.”

  “So he’s a thane?” Winston asked.

  “Yes, his comments about noblemen notwithstanding,” I said with a nod. “Or maybe I should say specifically because of them.

  “On that first night when he and I spoke, I said, ‘Noblemen are like that.’ And he said, ‘If you say so.’ A common spearman would have agreed with me and added a few observations about how arrogant thanes can be. Wulfgar’s response was that of a man who doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Go on,” Winston said, his brow furrowed.

  “After the attack, when I blamed Ulf for not sparing the life of that last outlaw, I was mad at having lost the chance to question the outlaw,” I recounted. “Wulfgar, however, who had actually given Ulf a direct order to save the guy’s life, seemed strangely resigned. That is not the reaction you would expect from a leader who had just been disobeyed by a common soldier. Insignificant when taken by itself, but in hindsight definitely striking. And finally, they’re good friends.”

  “They probably became friends because Simon let Ulf bunk with Wulfgar,” Winston said, not sounding entirely convinced.

  “That was an extremely lucky coincidence, I admit,” I said, shaking my head. “Which they knew to use to their advantage so we’d all think they’d become friends because they were suddenly sharing a room with each other.”

  “Coincidences,” Winston said, leaning his head back and resting it against the wall. “Coincidences and guesses.”