So he nodded. “Of course we will come. Our only goal is to be of service.”
Behind him, Conall snorted derisively, as he would.
Whether because he sensed the tension in the room or merely because he was anxious to meet the king, Finn immediately set off for the door, side-by-side with Holm. Seeing the king was necessary for Finn if he wanted to claim his inheritance, and Godfrid didn’t know if the issue would be complicated by a prior agreement Sanne and Arno might have come to as to how the business would be divided once Rikard died. After Finn’s mother had died at his birth, Rikard had married again, but this second wife had died within five years of the marriage. Then Rikard had married Sanne when Finn was ten years old. Among Danes, by the time a son is ten, he spends most of his time in male company, so Godfrid didn’t know how close Finn and Sanne had ever become, or if Finn had resented Sanne’s influence over his father.
Godfrid allowed Holm and Finn to get ahead of him and then turned to Cait, who stood hesitating in the center of the floor. “You should come as well. I know you didn’t intend to take this course just yet, but you should be introduced to the king as soon as possible.”
“Not wearing this.” Cait gestured to herself.
Godfrid thought that even in her plain dress, Cait looked like nothing more or less than a princess, but Conall nodded in agreement. “I can’t help but think we’ve made a mess of things. For now, maybe it’s best if you stay here with Godfrid’s guards.”
Cait’s eyes lit. “After three weeks of being surrounded by them every day, I have a pretty good idea about the warehouse’s contents. We have been assuming that the warehouse was sacked because someone was looking for something specific. Who’s to say that it isn’t still hiding here? I will go through what I can while you’re gone.”
Godfrid jerked his head to Jon, his captain, who stood in relationship to Godfrid as Gareth did to Prince Hywel. While Jon didn’t know about murder, he saw everything though jaundiced eyes, had no trouble keeping Godfrid’s secrets, and was one of the few people who knew that Godfrid and Conall were friends. His nod told Godfrid that he would protect Cait with his life, if it proved necessary.
Thus, Godfrid and Conall set off for Ottar’s hall in the wake of Finn and Holm, wending their way through the narrow streets of Dublin. The city had grown in size from the muddy spot on the banks of the Liffey that Godfrid’s ancestors had founded hundreds of years earlier. These days, the palisade encompassed over one thousand houses, most crammed so closely together that a man could walk from one end of the city to the other in hardly more than a quarter-hour.
Holm and Finn had started out a good dozen yards ahead, and they appeared to be walking fast in order to maintain their lead. There was some risk in Godfrid and Conall being seen talking to one another without fighting, but Godfrid had a serious issue he could no longer put off discussing with Conall, so he furrowed his brow as if he were intensely angry. “There is still one thing I don’t understand.”
“Only one thing?” Conall jested back, a snide expression on his face. Anyone watching would think they were in the middle of their usual bickering.
But for once, Godfrid found himself genuinely angry, and he spit out his question. “How could you leave your sister alone as a slave in Dublin, even to respond to a summons from your king? I don’t have a sister, but I would never willingly risk her the way you did.”
Conall walked a few more steps before replying, and then he glanced at Godfrid with that far-seeing stare of his.
Truthfully, that was all the answer Godfrid needed. “Ah. You mean you didn’t? Where have you been hiding all this time?”
“I shouldn’t have been offended that you asked, because I would have needed an answer too, no matter how well I knew you. I’ve spent these last weeks as part of a stranded crew from Ulster.” He laughed, making sure that the sound was loud enough to reach Holm and Finn, who walked a little faster in response. “Fergus mac Cormac at your service. Our ship hobbled into port needing extensive repairs. I’ve been fifty yards from Cait at most the entire time.”
Godfrid let out a relieved sigh. “I am very glad to hear it. So ... what happened last night?”
Conall growled under his breath. “It was time to discard Fergus in favor of Conall, but I couldn’t just reappear at my house without having come through the western gate. With our ship repaired, we sailed away with the tide yesterday afternoon. We went only as far south of Dublin as the mouth of the River Dargle, in order to meet with my ambassadorial entourage. I bathed, since that hadn’t happened nearly often enough these last weeks; shaved off a quite becoming beard, if I do say so myself; and donned my chain of office, in order to ride back to Dublin as myself this morning. I believed Cait could come to no harm in a single night.”
“Cait herself was fine, so you were right on that score.”
“But not Rikard.” Conall hummed low in his throat. “And yet, I am grateful her sojourn as a spy is over. She spoke the truth when she told you I fought her on it, even if she did learn more about the workings of Dublin in three weeks than I’d learned in a year.” He shook his head. “Since her husband died, she has been responsible only to herself and the king.”
“She’s a widow?”
“For more than a year now.”
“What about her father?”
“He died.” Conall gave him a piercing look. “I am sorry that I wasn’t honest with you.”
Godfrid still felt slightly affronted by the entire scenario, but he tried to put his hurt feelings aside. Conall was loyal to his king and his people, and his friendship with Godfrid, while beneficial—and enjoyable—for both of them, could not take precedence over duty. “Is there something more I should know before we meet with Ottar?”
“We will talk tonight, just the three of us. There is a great deal to tell you.” Then Conall lifted a hand and sharply clapped Godfrid on the shoulder, in a show of camaraderie that anyone watching would know was false. Godfrid made sure to look disgruntled.
Then he quickened his pace, hastening to catch up with Holm and Finn, who by now were within a few streets of Ottar’s palace. He fetched up beside Holm and made a show of sighing with relief, as if he couldn’t wait to be rid of Conall. “Thanks for nothing,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.
Holm actually grinned. “I don’t know. I think he’s starting to like you.”
Rikard’s wealth had been made on the dock of the Liffey in the northeastern quadrant of the city, but he’d built his house near the western gate, essentially as far from the dock as he could manage while still being inside the city walls. In turn, Ottar’s palace lay in the southeastern quadrant, set apart from the rest of the city by its own ten-foot-high palisade, in the area between the Liffey and the Poddle that had once been the entire settlement.
Ottar claimed that the walls, which had been built since he’d become king, were there as a last line of defense in case the outer walls of the city were breached. The Normans built that way all the time, and it made good sense to do so in Dublin, a city perpetually surrounded by enemies, but Godfrid still found the division irksome and pretentious. In the absence of an actual assault, they served daily as a reminder to the people of Dublin—and to Godfrid—that Ottar ruled them.
Though Gwen had insisted that Dublin was entirely flat, her perspective on the landscape came through the eyes of someone born and raised in Wales, a land of mountains that drew the eye in every cantref. Ottar’s palace had been built on an escarpment on the high point above the River Poddle, overlooking the tidal pool created by the intersection of the Rivers Poddle and Liffey. But it was still hardly higher than the houses around it, and certainly not higher than the adjacent thingmote.
The palace had once been the home of Godfrid’s family, and he couldn’t enter it without a deep pang at the loss of his father. Once Ottar had been confirmed as co-ruler, he’d moved into the palace, and Godfrid’s father had removed his household rather than share the space with a usur
per. Godfrid ground his teeth a dozen times a day at how far his family had fallen.
With Holm in the lead, Godfrid, Finn, and Conall were welcomed through the palace gate into an extensive compound. Because of the need to house soldiers, servants, and visiting dignitaries close by, many other buildings had been constructed within the walls. As they passed a series of craft halls, the pungent smell of candle-making wafted towards them. Space in Dublin was at a premium, but Ottar’s walled compound had slightly more room between buildings than the rest of the city.
The need for space and the freedom to expand was one reason the Danes had made their peace with Leinster a hundred years earlier. For centuries, in the forefront of every Danish mind had been the constant fear of attack and the knowledge that they needed at all times to be prepared for it. But if they were to expand their empire—and to survive—their options had been two-fold: tear down the southern and western walls and rebuild them in a wider circuit or forge such a certain peace with the Irish who surrounded them that Dublin’s citizens felt comfortable taking up permanent residence outside the city.
In the end, they’d done both. These days, farms and fields surrounded the city for miles around, even venturing, as in the case with the city’s leather-workings, north across the Liffey.
Since it was early morning, the compound was bustling. With single-minded purpose, Holm forged his way across the courtyard with Conall, Finn, and Godfrid in his wake, to find King Ottar standing in the middle of his hall, berating one of his underlings. It was an oddly familiar scene, hardly dissimilar from Godfrid’s entrance into Rikard’s warehouse earlier that morning, except with Ottar as the central figure instead of Sturla. The hall itself was magnificent. Though essentially the same size as Rikard’s warehouse, the walls were lined with trophies of conquest—weapons and tapestries—rather than trading goods.
The skald, meanwhile, stood a few feet away, his expression impassive. But, as usual, Godfrid could feel Sturla’s eyes taking in everything and everyone in an assessing manner. In retrospect, he thought it just as well that they’d left Cait at the warehouse. Sturla was one of the few who might not be seduced by her beauty and would not overlook the poor weave of her dress.
At their appearance, Ottar flicked his fingers at the servant, who bowed and scurried away. Before disdain rose to the front of his mind, Godfrid reminded himself that there for the grace of God went he, and that pride could not feed a man’s family. He’d swallowed down his pride and shame every day for the last five years, so he could hardly blame the men who surrounded Ottar from doing the king’s bidding. Godfrid himself was doing exactly the same, evidenced by the fact that he was here. The Danes had fallen far, it was true, but it was Ottar who was riding them all the way down, and Godfrid would be wise to remember it.
The only alternative for Godfrid would have been for him to leave Dublin, forsaking his brother and his inheritance, and forge a new life somewhere else. It wasn’t impossible. He could think of several foreign courts that would welcome him and his men. Danes had been leaving home in search of a new life for centuries. But he wasn’t that desperate. At least not yet. Brodar was committed to moving against Ottar at the summer solstice. Godfrid could swallow down his hatred a little longer.
At the sight of Conall, Ottar’s expression transformed from a mask of superiority to apparent delight. “Lord Conall! We’ve missed you these last weeks! When did you return?”
“Just now, my lord.” Conall accorded Ottar a polite bow. One of the consequences of Godfrid and Conall’s apparent animosity was that Ottar was more inclined to treat Conall as an ally. “I heard about Rikard’s death and thought I would look in before coming to greet you.”
“What can you tell me?” Ottar said, still focused on Conall. “Rikard is, in fact, dead?”
“He is, my lord. His warehouse was ransacked, implying that an intruder was looking for something.” Conall made no mention of the vault.
Ottar’s eyes snapped with anger, though not directed at the men before him. “The intruder stole his wealth?”
“Not in the main, not so far as we know, though we have yet to do a true accounting.”
“Then what did he want?”
“We don’t know. Given that the warehouse was ransacked, it may be that he didn’t find whatever it was he was looking for.”
“How did Rikard die? My men tell me there was much blood on the floor.”
“That was an error, my lord. Much of what we thought initially was blood was actually wine, possibly spilled to cover up the blood the intruder couldn’t wipe away.”
Ottar had been pleased to speak to Conall, but now he directed his attention to Holm, who quailed slightly under the king’s gaze. “Do we have any clue as to the identity of the villain?”
“No, my lord. I have sent my men to question everyone who lives or works within a stone’s throw of the warehouse. They have found nothing so far, and I will likely have to expand the search. In addition, I ordered the main gates of the city closed to free traffic.”
Ottar’s nostrils flared at that, as unhappy about this news as he had been about Conall’s. “Why?”
“The culprit may still be in the city. It seemed a sensible precaution,” Holm said, without mentioning the fact that it had been Godfrid’s idea.
So far Godfrid had said nothing, and he was happy to be ignored, but he felt compelled to come to Holm’s rescue. “My lord, the servants report that Rikard sent everyone away so he could meet with his visitor in private.”
Ottar wet his lips. “In the middle of the night?”
“So it appears, my lord.”
Such a meeting was by definition illicit, and Ottar’s eyes became thin slits at the thought, angry and just barely controlling his agitation. Godfrid could almost feel undercurrents boiling around him, but he didn’t know what they carried. Ottar glanced at Sturla, who gazed back at his king, still expressionless. If Godfrid hadn’t been watching closely, he might have missed the hint of a nod Sturla directed at his lord.
Holm coughed. “To be honest, my lord, the scene is confused. There is blood, but perhaps not Rikard’s, since a brief examination of the body revealed no overt wounds on him. And yet, Rikard is dead and his warehouse ransacked.”
“It would be unwise to assume anything yet,” Conall said in a tone of authority. “Men are posted at the warehouse to prevent anyone from entering until its contents have been gone through to determine what, if anything, was taken.”
Godfrid could only admire the way Conall touched upon Cait’s task without actually mentioning her name or who she was. So far, in fact, he had almost entirely refrained from saying we or I and had kept all identification of the participants as vague as possible.
“What of Rikard’s silver and gold?” Ottar asked.
Godfrid put out a hand, palm up. It was a gesture that implied supplication, one Godfrid often deliberately used in Ottar’s presence. “I apologize, my lord, but we can be certain of nothing at this time. Given the destruction, we find it possible that what the intruder was looking for is still there. We think it would be wise to find it, whatever it is, before it becomes a matter the heirs must sort out among themselves.”
Ottar looked somewhat sideways at him. “Heirs? You are speaking of Sanne and Arno?”
“And me.” Finn had remained a few paces behind the rest, waiting with admirable patience for them to tell their story, but now he stepped forward. “My lord.” He went down on one knee before Ottar. “I am at your service.”
Ottar blinked. “Do I know you?”
“I arrived this morning to find my father dead and his murderer walking free. I am Finn, Rikard’s youngest son.”
Finn should have named himself when he went down on one knee, but Godfrid couldn’t fault him for his dramatic timing. The only off-note to the entire scene was that he had arrived the same day his father may have been murdered. It was a little too soon in Godfrid’s mind for pleasure in the spectacle.
Godfrid re
gretted now that he hadn’t taken Holm aside and warned him against giving Finn a rundown of the investigation during the walk to the palace. Whether or not Holm wanted to admit it, after a two-year absence, he didn’t know Finn anymore, and his friend was now at the top of the list of suspects to be questioned about Rikard’s death. Just because he said he arrived after Rikard was dead didn’t mean that was what had actually happened.
Ottar reached down and grasped Finn’s upper arms to raise him up. “You’re Finn? We thought you were lost at sea!”
“My brother remains lost, my lord. But as you can see, I am found.”
The young man had a way with words, Godfrid could give him that. Ottar’s eyes went to Holm’s, and the sheriff nodded. “I recognized him immediately, my lord. Growing up, we were like brothers.”
Ottar actually looked pleased, an expression rarely seen on his face. His own eldest son had died a few years before in yet another misguided foray into Wales. All he had left were three daughters and a six-year-old son, upon whom all his hopes and dreams now rested. “You must share a meal with me and speak of your adventures.”
“Of course I will, my lord. Just say the word, and I will be here.”
Godfrid settled a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I am very sorry for your loss, Finn. It is tragic that your father died on the very day of your return.”
Finn bobbed his head. “Thank you, my lord. I just hope we can discover how and why it happened.”
“We will.” Godfrid growled the promise, though he hadn’t actually intended to say anything at all. It had come out all on its own.
Then Sturla approached the king with an intent expression on his face. “If I may have a moment of your time, my lord.”
The Viking Prince Page 6