One of the few forward-thinking projects Ottar had instigated during his reign was to order the digging of a similar channel to run from the Poddle through the palace and out the other side. The public latrines for the city had all been built over these two water lines, and they were one of the reasons that, despite its overcrowding at times, Dublin was a very livable city and hardly smelled. The arrangement was eminently reproducible almost everywhere in Ireland, with all its rivers and springs.
A bell tolled for the hour of mid-morning prayer, just as the healer’s apprentice arrived from the other direction with as anxious a look on his face as Conall had ever seen on any man. That was saying something, and an indication of how fraught with peril Tod viewed this meeting.
“Good.” Conall nodded. “You are feeling unwell, and you look it.” He leaned against the frame of the door while Tod perched uneasily between two toilet seats. “What do you have to tell me?”
But, as before, now that it came to it, Tod didn’t want to speak.
Conall didn’t like putting words in an informant’s mouth. But in this case, it seemed necessary. “I assume you are the one who sewed Harald’s wound? We saw the fine stitching when we examined him yesterday.”
Tod ducked his head in a nod of admission, even while he refused to say yes out loud.
“How did that come about?”
Tod dithered for another few moments before committing, speaking quickly in the hope that the sooner he told Conall the truth, the sooner he could leave. Which was, in the main, true.
“The first time he came to me he was bleeding badly. While he told me he’d fallen in a darkened street and sliced his head on a splinter of wood, I saw instantly that the wound had come from something sharper, like metal.”
“Did you press him on the matter?”
Tod shook his head. “Harald was ever one to keep to himself, though whenever our paths crossed, he was kind to me. After that first time, when he realized I could keep a secret, he came to me whenever he was hurt.”
“When was the first time?”
“Shortly after King Brodar’s crowning, not long after Harald arrived in Dublin.” Then Tod actually volunteered information. “We both lost brothers in the fighting at the Liffey.”
Conall didn’t know Harald at all, obviously, but it seemed to Conall that Harald might have played up that shared experience, as a way to ensure Tod wouldn’t give him away. Conall didn’t say anything, however. It would serve only to antagonize Tod, and he wasn’t in the business of ascribing motives to dead men without real cause.
“Do you have any idea what he was doing?”
Tod’s expression turned sad. “It was obvious he had been fighting—with weapons, it seemed to me. After that first time, he never again had a wound on his face or head, but the rest of him was often bruised. Seeing as how he died with a sword in his hand, I assumed at first he’d been fighting someone and had been wounded to death.” He shrugged. “I never thought he’d kill himself.”
There it was again. “Any idea as to whom he might have been fighting? Or where?”
“None.” Tod shook his head, positive about this answer if nothing else.
“Has anyone else come to you with unexplained wounds or bruises?”
Again the head shake.
“How many times did you patch him up?”
Tod’s chin wrinkled as he thought. “A half-dozen?”
Conall frowned. That was a lot of injuries in only a few months. “And you never questioned him about what he was doing? Why he was allowing himself to get hurt?”
“Many times, but he never answered. When I sewed up his arm I pressed him hard, but when he grew angry, I stopped talking. I wanted him to keep coming to me rather than trying to deal with his wounds himself.”
“He was a monk. A scribe. Did you ever suggest he had no business fighting?”
“Oh sure. I also told him it wasn’t honorable for him to be sneaking around like this. Harald said—” Tod paused and a thoughtful expression crossed his face, “—he said he couldn’t stop. That I was wrong about what was and was not honorable. He said his honor was at stake.”
It was on the tip of Conall’s tongue to reply that he wouldn’t have said priests had honor—or at least not in the way he understood it. But then he thought of Abbot Rhys and realized he was wrong. So he said instead, “Do you know anything about the rest of his life? Did he have any friends other than you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know that you could even call me a friend.” He shrugged. “Harald kept to himself. On the rare occasions I worked up the nerve to ask him who else might be involved, he wouldn’t answer or he would claim he hadn’t been fighting and he didn’t know what I was talking about. But he had another friend in this, I’m sure of it. At a minimum, someone had to be hurting him.” He pursed his lips, hesitating again, though this time it seemed to be because he was thinking about how to explain.
“What is it?”
Tod hemmed and hawed before finally saying, “If Harald hadn’t been wounded so often, I would have said all he cared about was books. More than that, he loved stories. Often, while I patched him up, to distract himself he would speak to me of the legends of our ancestors.”
Conall’s eyes narrowed. “Do you mean his own personal ancestors or your mutual ancestors, the Danes?”
“His stories weren’t about real people but were the old stories the skalds tell in the hall. When Harald told them or talked about them, he made them sound real, like he believed Thor at one time walked the earth.” Tod shook his head. “He was obviously troubled.”
“Is that why you believed he took his own life?”
Tod’s head came up, and his expression turned fierce. “I never believed it! Not only is it a sin, but he was not a man in despair.”
Conall canted his head. “You’re that certain?”
Tod scoffed, telling Conall all he needed to know before he added, “He wouldn’t ever.”
Then, from underneath his robe, Tod brought out a book, perhaps six inches by eight, and held it out to Conall. “The reason I was late was because I went by my cell. He gave this to me the last time we talked. He was very excited by it and said he was going to translate it into Danish. Would he behave that way if he had any thought to kill himself?”
Conall took the book, which was bound in soft leather, and opened it. It had no title page and consisted of thirty or so loose pages, like it had been part of a book which had been mostly destroyed. The text was in Latin, with illustrations of defensive and offensive fighting techniques taught by a master, referred to in the text as sacerdos, and a pupil, called a scolaris, translated as priest and student respectively. The people in the images were armed with swords and shields, and each successive panel moved the reader through a given martial form.
Instinctively, Conall put his fist to his mouth, so amazed by what he was looking at he didn’t know what to say. Almost breathlessly he asked, “Do you know where Harald acquired this?”
Tod shook his head. “He didn’t say.”
It brought to Conall’s mind the chest of books he and Godfrid had found in the treasure house of Merchant Rikard, whose murder they’d investigated in the spring. He didn’t remember it being among them, but then, at the time he’d been concerned about other things. “May I keep this?”
“That’s why I brought it. I hope you will share it with Lord Gareth, if it would help convince him Harald didn’t take his own life. I don’t want it in my cell any longer anyway. Someone might find it.”
Conall closed the book and tucked it under his arm. He was afraid if he held the book in his hand, Tod would see it trembling. “Thank you for your honesty. You have been very helpful.”
“Don’t tell Brother Godwin. Please, my lord?”
Conall’s brow furrowed. “Why don’t you want him to know you helped Harald? Your stitching was excellent, and you were doing a service for a fellow monk.”
“Godwin decided on the first day
I began working with him that I was useless. If he learns someone doesn’t think so, he’ll take it out on me forevermore.” He leaned forward. “He’s ill, you know, with a wasting disease. He doesn’t have long to live, and when he dies, I will inherit the healing house.”
“You want that?”
“I do. Very much. Godwin is set in his ways and refuses to consider new ideas.”
It was a common refrain among the young, anxious to replace the old, but in this case, Conall could understand and appreciate Tod’s impatience. His stitches had been well done. “What if I spoke to the bishop? Or the prior? It could ensure your ascension.”
“Or attract censure for physicking out of turn. Or worse, allowing Harald to keep his secret by not speaking of what I knew.” But then Tod bit his lip and gave a sharp nod. “Yes. Thank you. I would appreciate it if you would speak to Prior James.” He straightened his shoulders. “Best not to lie anymore.”
Chapter Sixteen
Day Two
Cait
Since the investigation into Merchant Rikard’s death, Cait had ventured down to the docks only rarely at first, but once Brodar had settled into his kingship, she’d been more welcome. One of his first acts, decreed with Bishop Gregory at his left shoulder, had been to abolish slavery in Dublin.
Over the last century, and really since the Danes had become more aligned with the Roman church, slavery in Dublin, and Ireland as a whole, had been on the wane anyway. The Normans had abolished it entirely when they’d conquered England in the previous century, making the slave trade for Danish merchants far less lucrative than it had once been, since an entire market was now closed to them. Conall had discovered an illicit slave trade in Shrewsbury—and almost become subject of it himself—but no Dublin merchant had made his primary living trading in people for at least twenty years.
There had been slaves in Dublin, however, and there were still many throughout Ireland, since the Irish Church had not yet bowed to the pope’s decree on the matter. Cait herself had masqueraded as a slave for three weeks, and upwards of twenty slaves had worked for Merchant Rikard.
No longer.
Rikard’s son Finn, who’d inherited his business, had been informed of slavery’s abolition in advance. Part of the arrangement worked out between Bishop Gregory, Brodar, and the merchants of Dublin was that any slave who wanted to continue as a slave could, working for their former master, with a free living, for the rest of their lives if they chose. The rest would be paid the same wages as free workers and dockmen, already in the vast majority. If the former slave declined the free living, she was then obligated to make her own way in terms of finding a place to live or food to eat. No longer would it be provided for her. Or him, as the case might be.
That said, Finn already had a barracks and kitchen, and he’d set up a system where his former slaves could choose to pay him for food and housing from the wage he paid them. It was in Cait’s mind that Finn was actually getting the better end of the deal financially with this new arrangement. Now, he had all of the benefit of slave labor but, except for their wages, none of the responsibility.
Whether Finn and the other merchants hadn’t fought the Bishop’s request because they’d realized in advance how this might play out, Cait didn’t know. For her, the side effect of abolishing slavery was a genuine friendship with several of Finn’s former slaves. Lena and Ana had both stayed to work for Finn as employees, since as cook and laundress respectively, they had skills that made them valuable. Finn had needed to pay both a bit more to keep them in his employ.
Cait’s other friend was Iona, strangely enough, who’d been openly hostile when she’d learned Cait’s real identity. Freedom had transformed her, however, from what might have uncharitably been termed a drudge to a business woman in her own right. She’d been hired to oversee a tavern a stone’s throw from Finn’s warehouse, and daily she blossomed into her new role. In addition to working at the tavern, Iona was in charge of supplies at Finn’s kitchen, so Cait hoped to see her too.
Cait and Gwen had walked several blocks through the streets of Dublin, with Cait’s guards (Sitric and Bern) trailing five paces behind, before Gwen finally asked a question that appeared to have been eating at her for some time. “Is Dublin different now that Brodar is king?”
Cait looked at her, genuinely startled by the question. “Can’t you tell?”
“I was a prisoner when I was here last, and I was too wrapped up in my own misery to notice much of anything.”
Cait smiled ruefully. “I forgot about that. You are so beautiful and competent with such lovely children. It’s easy to forget you lived a life before becoming the wife of the steward to the edling of Gwynedd.”
Gwen glanced at her. “We have that in common, then.”
It took a moment for Cait to realize Gwen was paying Cait’s compliment back to her, but then she smiled and added, “It takes some getting used to, doesn’t it? A city, I mean.”
“I’ve been to Chester.” Gwen’s head swiveled this way and that. She seemed curious about everything, without actually poking her nose into anyone’s doorway. “That was a big city too. It smelled worse, however, and was full of Saxons and Normans, so not my favorite place.”
“You could despise Dublin for being the place to which you were brought against your will.”
“That would mean despising Godfrid, which is impossible.”
At the mention of Godfrid’s name, happiness bubbled up inside Cait. She couldn’t wait to marry him, to be able to be with him all the time without worrying about what anyone thought. For a moment, she was lost in the anticipation and forgot what they were doing, only to blink and find Gwen smiling at her, eyebrows raised.
Cait shook herself, blushing at Gwen’s knowing look. “To answer your question, the city feels like an entirely different place. That we have someone to respect on the throne straightens everyone’s shoulders. They know Brodar has everyone’s best interests at heart. I think most people knew from the start it was a mistake to put Ottar on the throne, but they did so out of fear.”
“Fear of what?”
Cait tipped her head. “Losing what they had? Losing more than they’d already lost? Dublin has been on the decline for years, and while Ottar promised to stem the tide, he never developed a real plan for doing so. He was the one who agreed to fight in Gwynedd for Cadwaladr, seeing only the gold he offered and not the cost to attain it. He thought like a raider, never a king.”
“And Brodar is different?”
“Brodar understands Dublin can no longer survive on its own. It is an island of Danes in a sea of Irish. He can either embrace the future or run from it. He seeks to navigate a path forward in alliance with Leinster while maintaining the integrity of Dublin. It won’t be easy to do, but if anyone can do it, I think he can.”
Gwen guffawed. “Is that Godfrid speaking?”
Cait grinned. “I know more about politics than I ever cared to. But yes, with Godfrid’s help, and our marriage, there’s real hope for the future here.”
“Now you’re talking about the O’Connors.”
“Leinster and Dublin standing together are stronger than either alone, as was proved at the Battle of the Liffey. And as long as my uncle is king, he has sworn not to subsume Dublin into Leinster.” Cait waved a hand. “Danes are unruly and troublesome anyway. Why would my uncle want to rule them when he has Brodar to do it for him?”
“That’s one way to look at it.” Gwen frowned. “We’re all slaves, in one way or another, aren’t we? We all serve a master. The goal is to have that master be one of our own choosing.”
Cait came to a halt in the road. “Do you have the sight? A similar thought was in my mind a moment ago when I was thinking about who we are going to see.”
“I am no more gifted than any woman.” Gwen had walked two paces farther on and now came back to Cait. “You are of the blood, like I am.” She tipped her head towards the nearest house. “Not like these Danes. They put their heads down
and barrel forward, without looking out of the corners of their eyes. They seem to think only a select few, and those mostly men, have insight.”
Her heart suddenly full, Cait threw her arms around Gwen. They were on a slight hill, with Gwen on the downward side, and Cait was taller, so she almost unbalanced them by mistake before she straightened and released her new friend.
“What was that for?” Gwen asked, between breathless laughs.
“Until now, I hadn’t realized how alone I felt, with no other woman who truly understood me.”
Gwen smiled. “I hoped you would be a kindred spirit. We are lucky to have you.”
The two women set off again, glad to be reminded that finding a friend was a little like falling in love, without the thumping heart. They had a sense of each other now—and a trust—that meant they could talk without shielding their true selves.
When Cait and Gwen arrived at the kitchen associated with Finn’s warehouse and barracks, Lena was elbow deep in bread dough she’d turned onto a floured table in the center of the kitchen. She had new staff now, paid for their work, one of whom was stirring a pot suspended over a fire while the other sliced cheese in the corner.
“Cait! What are you doing here so close to your wedding day?”
“I don’t have anything to do now my mother has arrived. She has it all in hand.”
Lena snickered. “I’m sure she means well.”
“I am happy to let her have her head.” Cait gestured to Gwen. “This is my friend, Gwen, from Gwynedd. She speaks a little Danish.”
The Irish Bride Page 13