The Irish Bride

by Sarah Woodbury

  Cadoc took the sword, holding it by the sheath as if he didn’t know what to do with it and then bent to the street to gather dust to smear across Dai’s cheek. “That’s a bit more like the vagabond I know you to be at heart.”

  With a grin and a wave, Dai left them to enter the workshop.

  As the previous customer had done, Dai ducked under the lintel (pleased he had to duck at all), and stepped into the shop—and in his surprise, came to an abrupt halt two feet into the room.

  The proprietor, who was standing on the other side of a long counter that ran almost the width of the shop, grinned. “Not what you expected, eh?”

  Dai walked forward. “It isn’t! From the outside it looks like nothing much of anything.” For starters, the shop was bigger inside than he expected, built square with a wooden floor, not rounded like many of the huts around it or oblong like Godfrid’s hall. It was warm and dry as well.

  Bows, axes, and armor of every stripe hung from the beams that ran from wall to wall three feet above his head. A few smaller items worked in leather, including a fine set of bracers, lay loose on the counter. The swords were to be found on the wall behind the proprietor, too precious to allow just anyone who wandered by to touch.

  In appearance, the proprietor was the direct opposite of Gren. He was the same height as Dai, who had just started to grow towards his man’s height, with a mostly bald head, a thick mustache but no beard, and a somewhat rotund belly. Dai didn’t want to make assumptions, but he didn’t think the man was a blacksmith at all.

  However, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to ask. He reached up and touched a leather sheath hanging above his head. “Where did you get all this? Did you make these weapons yourself?”

  The man laughed. “Not me.”

  “You’re a trader?” Dai focused on him directly. “You’ve sailed far, then? To other lands?”

  Dai intended his enthusiasm and questions to be encouraging. But they were also genuine in this instance, so he didn’t feel like he was mumming. The man put his forearms on the counter and leaned into them. “You’re not from Dublin, I can tell that from your accent, though your Danish is very good. You’re not Irish either, I don’t think.”

  “Welsh,” Dai said.

  “Ah.” He nodded knowingly, and Dai realized with shock that the merchant thought he was a newly freed slave. It made a certain kind of sense. “I am Vigo. What can I help you with?”

  “I need a blade,” Dai said.

  Vigo eyed him. “Why would that be?”

  Dai made his expression truculent which, truthfully, wasn’t hard. He knew his mother had grown weary of seeing it, though things had been much better between them since Dai had apprenticed to the Dragons. He made himself a mental reminder to hug her the next time he saw her.

  “So I can fight.”

  Vigo continued to lean across the counter. The floor where the merchant stood was raised, like a dais, because he was still looking Dai in the eye. “Why would you want to do that?”

  Dai straightened his spine and looked steadily back. “Why does it matter?”

  Cadoc and Jon chose that moment to enter the store, arguing, as promised, about the merits of swords versus axes. They were speaking in French. Given Cadoc’s sword, the decision made sense, and since Jon already knew Vigo—or at least knew of him—there was no chance Vigo wouldn’t recognize him.

  “Ho!” Vigo straightened instantly and glared at Jon, not a morsel of respect in his demeanor or tone. “What are you doing here?”

  Dai backed away to the far right corner of the shop, as he would have done had he really been a former slave.

  “We are interested in your weaponry and armor,” Jon said in Danish.

  “I don’t believe you. You aren’t interested in my wares.” He pointed to Dai’s sword at Cadoc’s waist. “Not with that weapon.”

  Cadoc put a hand proprietarily on the sword hilt. Neither man had even glanced at Dai, who was really glad he’d had the forethought to shed the clothes and gear that made him look noble. He’d worn a sword since he had apprenticed at twelve to Cynan, Prince Hywel’s brother, before the death of Rhun, and he missed its weight on his hip, even for so brief a time. In addition, when his father had given it to him, he’d looked him in the eye and said, “Do not lose this.”

  Dai had no intention of losing it. He slept with it tucked alongside his pallet. He never went anywhere without it, not even the latrine, except perhaps in the middle of the night. And even then, sometimes he thought about it before he left it behind. No matter where he was he could be attacked under the cover of darkness, and if he was sitting on the latrine without his sword, he would regret it.

  Jon capitulated, though his tone was sharp and his words clipped. “This is about the monk, Harald, who died.”

  “Killed himself, I hear.” Vigo seemed unaffected by the observation.

  “That is not certain.” Jon tipped his head—as did Dai—both wondering how it was the news had spread so quickly. “Where did you hear of it?”

  “Here and there.”

  Nobody liked to identify their sources of gossip. But while Vigo was as near to hostile as it made no difference, he couldn’t refuse to answer Jon’s questions. Jon’s master was a prince of Dublin. Dai didn’t yet have such status, but his father did, and Dai had always been treated well because of it. That was, of course, why he hadn’t told Vigo who he really was.

  “Did you know him?”

  “Did I know who?”

  “Harald.”

  Vigo laughed derisively. “I have never sold a sword to a monk.”

  And suddenly, Dai found himself staring into the face of an outright lie, and he knew it. He knew it! He’d decided last year that he didn’t want to be an investigator like Llelo or his father. But today was suddenly fun. He’d been feeling just a little guilty at deceiving Vigo, and every man had a right to his secrets, but not when it came to murder. Murder was a violation of a man’s right to live. Even King Owain couldn’t hang someone without a trial. That was what Normans did. The Welsh were more civilized.

  Vigo had looked hard at Jon when he denied knowing Harald, which meant to Dai that he was used to lying. Liars, according to Dai’s father, either looked away when they lied or looked right into your eyes and lied to your face. The best ones could do so without the little edge of defiance Vigo showed to Jon. Dai couldn’t wait to see how Vigo responded when he asked him the same questions once Jon and Cadoc left.

  Jon wasn’t done with Vigo, however. He’d brought Harald’s sword, and now he laid it flat on the counter in front of Vigo. “I think this is one of yours.”

  To Dai’s surprise, Vigo didn’t immediately deny it. He picked it up by the hilt and tipped it this way and that, studying the heft and the shine of the blade. “If I sold it, it wasn’t to a man who called himself Harald, and it wasn’t in this condition.”

  The qualifications were interesting, but understandable, since the sword was nicked along the blade.

  Now Cadoc stepped forward and said in French. “We are not accusing you of anything. We just want to know if you sold this sword and to whom you might have sold it.” Then he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and showed him a sketch of Harald, which Dai’s father had drawn. Dai would have loved to have a similar gift, seeing how useful it was, but his people ended up looking like slugs with heads and his horses like dogs.

  Vigo understood the French, clearly, which made sense if he traveled far and wide to trade. Now, he shook his head, and this time his denial appeared genuine. Either he was telling the truth, or he was finding it easier to lie. “I don’t know him.” He looked into Jon’s face. “Was there anything else?”

  Jon picked up the sword. “No.”

  Cadoc replied in French, “Thank you for your time.” The door closed behind them without either man ever looking at Dai.

  Dai allowed their footfalls to dissipate and then sauntered up to the counter. “What do I have to do to get a sword like that?”


  “Work hard.”

  Dai fingered the bracers on the counter. “It’s too bad nobody fights anymore.”

  Vigo scoffed. “Did you miss the battle against the men of Meath?”

  “If it hadn’t been for Leinster, we would have lost.”

  Vigo subsided. “You’re not wrong, boy.” He leaned against the counter. “So you want to learn to fight?”

  “Yes!”

  “If you stick around, I might be able to arrange for you to learn.”

  “You could?” Dai’s eyes widened.

  Vigo raised one shoulder. “Tomorrow night. Come to me here at low tide.”

  Dai swallowed. “Would we be going somewhere?”

  “We’ll see. You’re not afraid of getting wet, are you?”

  “I do get seasick,” Dai lied.

  Vigo laughed. “We’ll be crossing the Liffey on foot, not by boat.”

  Dai tried to look unaffected by this news. “You lied to those men.”

  Vigo’s eyes went wide—exaggeratedly so. “Did I?”

  “Maybe you didn’t recognize the picture of that dead monk, but when you said you’d never sold a sword to a monk, you lied.”

  Rather than being offended, Vigo laughed. “I didn’t lie. I didn’t sell the sword, I loaned it. And besides which, it was a priest who rented it, not a monk.” He gestured grandly to his shop. “Most men can’t afford to buy any of this, but they can borrow it for a time. For a fee.” His eyes glinted.

  This double revelation shook Dai, but he endeavored not to show it. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “Best not to get involved.”

  “How did you know the man was a priest? Did he come in his robe?”

  “No.” Another laugh. “He wore workman’s clothing.”

  “Then how did you know he was a priest?”

  “You ask a great many questions, don’t you?” Vigo grabbed a broom that had been leaning against the wall and handed it over the counter to Dai. “Sweep away their footprints and there’s a bun in it for you.”

  Dai took the broom and went to work, sending a few clods of dirt out the door, which he opened for that purpose. “So how did you know he was a priest?” It was a risk, asking a third time, but Dai thought it was in character.

  “I didn’t at the time, though I thought I recognized his face when he pushed back his hood. Then I saw him during mass, so, of course, I knew.”

  Dai didn’t know the right approach for his next question, whether to pretend he wasn’t interested or to show his enthusiasm. He opted for the latter. “During mass? Where? Who is he?”

  Vigo waved his hand airily. “He’s one of dozens at Christ’s Church.” Then he slapped his chest. “But being a curious fellow, I asked around. He’s the secretary for the bishop himself.” He laughed. “Odd things are happening up at the cathedral, eh?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Day Two

  Gareth

  Odd things indeed.

  Dai had told the story of his meeting with Vigo with a gleeful enthusiasm that infected everyone else in the room. How could it not?

  Gareth ruffled his son’s hair. “I’m proud of you for sticking with it. Not everyone would have known what to say.”

  “Jon and Cadoc helped.” Dai ducked his head. “If they hadn’t put up Vigo’s hackles, he probably wouldn’t have trusted me. I can’t believe he sold Arnulf out—to a total stranger!” Then he hesitated. “I guess he didn’t mean to because he didn’t know who he was talking to. You don’t think he’s lying, do you? He can’t know who I am, can he?”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” Gareth said. “It doesn’t sound like it.”

  “How do you feel about this?” Gwen put her arm around Dai’s shoulders. “Lying to him, I mean?”

  The old Dai might have shrugged and shown unconcern, but the new Dai was more thoughtful, and he took a moment before he answered. “I felt bad at first. But when he lied to Jon’s face, I decided the truth was more important. And if Arnulf rented that sword, then he’s been lying to Father this whole time!”

  Dai’s outrage was endearing—and understandable too. They were all working towards a common goal, and it was frustrating to discover people who were supposed to be trustworthy standing in their way.

  But it was gratifying too, because this, combined with Gwen and Cait’s discovery of the origin of the wooden coin and Holm’s conversation with Harald’s mother and the existence of his books, gave them a clear indication of where to go from here.

  Llelo looked at Gareth. “Can I be with you when you arrest Arnulf?”

  “Of course, but I’m not going to do that yet.” Gareth’s eyes met Gwen’s, and then hers widened at what she might have seen in his. “He isn’t going anywhere, and I sense he is a little fish. Saying anything to him could alert the bigger ones, like this Goff—or Vigo. I think we need to use him first. And that means letting him run free, as much as it goes against our instincts.”

  “You’re not—” Gwen stopped. “Gareth.”

  “What?”

  Gwen rolled her eyes. “It’s a bad idea.”

  “Is it? You don’t even know what I am going to propose.”

  His wife poked her finger at him. “I was at Shrewsbury too, remember? And Dai—” she broke off, and Gareth’s heart clenched at the genuine fear in her face.

  “I’m not a child anymore, Mam,” Dai said from beside his mother.

  “I know.” Gwen looked down at her hands.

  “I was in Shrewsbury too, Gwen,” Conall said gently.

  Gwen reached out a hand and put it on top of Conall’s. “I know that too.” She sighed and sat back, gesturing to Gareth. “Go on. Tell them the plan.”

  “It is obvious to me we should take advantage of Dai’s discovery and have him go with Vigo to the fight, if that’s happening tomorrow night.” He put up one finger before anyone could say anything. “In addition, we have two coins, which means two more of us may attend the event. Others can be nearby if something goes wrong. We have to think hard about whom we can send openly.”

  Cadoc looked disgruntled. “It can’t be me or Jon, since we are known to Vigo personally now.”

  “Nor can it be Conall, Llelo, or I,” Gareth said. “If Arnulf plans to attend, he would recognize us on sight and know the game was up.”

  “Whatever that game is,” Gwen said darkly.

  Gareth’s eyes swept around the table, seeing his two sons, Gwen, Conall, Jon, and Cadoc, who appeared to be this week’s delegate to the murder investigation. In past years, it usually had been Evan, but he and Gruffydd were the leaders of the Dragons now and charged with Prince Hywel’s personal safety. Cait, Godfrid, and Hywel were at the palace, each unable to attend because of royal obligations, though all would have wanted to.

  Holm was also present, though he’d stayed silent while they talked, likely because he couldn’t understand a word they were saying. Gareth had almost surprised himself by including him, but he was the sheriff and, unlike in previous investigations in foreign lands, they didn’t need to keep select aspects of their findings to themselves.

  “I had a thought we might rope in a few of the other Dragons, if you approve of my plan,” Gareth said.

  Gwen put up a hand. “My objections aside, which are more for Dai—”

  “Legitimately so,” Gareth said, wanting to be supportive, and would have been even if he wasn’t likely to get what he wanted.

  Gwen eyed her husband but continued, “We have two coins and two men to use them. We have a monk who was obsessed with Danish history and mythology—and who died dressed as a knight. I am forced to agree that we have to take advantage of what we’ve been given. I am wondering, however, if Iona shouldn’t keep her coin and use it. Or if women don’t need a coin to be admitted, she could go on the arm of one of the Dragons. Having a recognizable person at the fight might call a newcomer less into question.”

  “Can she go on the arm of Fergus the Sailor?” Conall asked.

&nbs
p; “He’s Irish. Iona made clear these fights are for Danes.”

  “None of the Dragons are Danes,” Conall pointed out, “and none of them speak Danish at all, much less as well as I do.” He looked at Holm and said, “What do you think?” and then translated what they’d just said into Danish.

  Holm looked thoughtful for a moment before putting forth his opinion (again patiently translated for those who didn’t understand). “Harald had a coin, a sword, and died wearing armor. The idea that he is associated with these fights is an obvious one. I’m sorry to say I know nothing of them, and I too am not one who can go.”

  Jon translated and then added, “Sitric already confessed to being involved. He has a coin himself, so clearly he should go.” He rose to his feet. “I’ll bring him in.”

  While Jon was getting Sitric, Cadoc stirred. “The rest of us need to stay close. I, for one, am not going to sit by and wait while the young one has all the fun.” He put a hand on Dai’s shoulder and shook him.

  “We can post men north of the river long before sundown, so nobody will be wondering about a herd of us crossing the bridge at the same time as the participants,” Gareth said. “We can also put a man on Goff, to see where he goes and with whom he meets.”

  “And on Arnulf,” Conall said. “Carefully. We don’t want to give ourselves away before tomorrow night.”

  Jon returned with Sitric, who’d already begged Godfrid’s forgiveness and was now ready to talk. Although he was dark of hair and eye, his beard was thin, indicating he was probably just twenty, if that. He was large, however, and no longer had the round face of youth.

  “Many will not be crossing the bridge. There’s a full moon tomorrow night, which makes the tide very low. Under those circumstances, it’s possible to cross the Liffey over the tidal flats. The organizers have been very careful to make sure we are never caught, which means the city guards can’t be put on alert by so many men leaving the city at the same time after dark.”