The Viking Prince

by Sarah Woodbury

  The hem trailed in the dirt, of course, since he was a foot taller than she, but it was his summer cloak, so it was shorter and less heavy than what he would have worn a month or two ago. She hadn’t been cold, but she accepted the added layer with appreciation. He was right that after the initial shock of seeing Godfrid escorting a woman through the streets of Dublin, the quest to discover her identity would begin. It might already be underway.

  “What are you going to say to Arno about me?”

  “I will introduce you as Conall’s sister, which you are.”

  “But why would I be assisting you?”

  “Does it matter? There are a few advantages to being a prince. One of them is an ability to avoid questions if I want to.” He canted his head. “Besides, it makes sense to have a woman involved in the investigation.”

  Cait still didn’t understand. “I imagine most men wouldn’t like to be questioned by a woman.”

  “True, but that’s why it’s good to have you with me. Your presence will be disarming and put men off their stride. In addition, you will have entry into the world of women that is entirely closed to me.” He gave a slight smile. “Someday, I would very much like to have the honor of introducing you to Gwen.”

  Cait frowned. “With that name, she isn’t Danish.”

  “Welsh.”

  Cait wet her lips. “The way you say her name makes me think she’s a former lover.” This was another reason to be thankful she was a widow, since it meant Godfrid wouldn’t be embarrassed to be speaking of intimate things with her.

  “Oh no!” Godfrid laughed. “I admit I wanted her to be, many years ago. But she had her sights on a better man than I.”

  “I find that hard to believe.” Cait’s hand felt warm in Godfrid’s elbow. Truly, she would be wise to remove it. “I’ve always heard the Welsh have no fire in them. The Danes—and we before them—raided their shores many a time, and they never retaliated.”

  “They have a fire, but they didn’t come to Ireland because they have no concern for any land other than their own. But that land? They’ll fight to the ending of the world to keep it.” Godfrid looked down at her. “That’s something I think an Irish woman could understand.”

  “Certainly this one does.” Cait paused, working to continue her query, but not wanting to appear overly concerned about it. “So ... why did you forgo your interest in Gwen?”

  “She married Gareth the Welshman.”

  “A man of infinite virtue, so it seems.” Cait’s words came out a little tart.

  “Perhaps, but I think you’d like him, and I can see you and Gwen having much to talk about. She is less outspoken than you, but even when she says nothing, you can see her thinking things you’d probably prefer her to say.”

  Cait hummed under her breath. “I like my men a little rougher around the edges.”

  “Don’t say that any louder, or every eligible man in Dublin will be knocking at your door.” Godfrid laughed again and brought up his other hand to touch hers where it rested in the crook of his arm. He was telling her that he was glad she was with him. Cait was also not oblivious to the fact that walking this way with him proclaimed to the entire city that she was with him, and woe betide the man who attempted to get between them.

  Cait herself may not have entirely decided what she thought of Godfrid, but she knew she definitely didn’t want that.

  Chapter Twelve

  Day One

  Conall

  Despite Cait and Godfrid’s suggestions as to what they would tell Ottar, Conall thought it would be better if he wasn’t seen leaving the city. On the way to collect his horse, it occurred to him that the best way to reach Brodar’s house without causing any kind of comment was to disguise himself again as Fergus the sailor, the clothing for which he’d brought back to Dublin with him for just such an occasion.

  To that end, he changed hastily in the kitchen, and then his steward sneaked him out the back of the yard when nobody was in the street. It was one of those times he was glad that all of his servants had come with him from Leinster, so he didn’t fear that any of them would betray him.

  The only hitch to his disguise was getting past the guard at the western gate. He’d given himself the worst horse in his stable, but it was still a fine animal. In the end, Conall decided Fergus needed the best credentials possible, which was a letter signed by Conall himself. As he approached the gate, he waved it at the guard—knowing full well he couldn’t read—and told him what it said.

  The guard looked at it and then looked at Conall—and for a moment Conall feared the guard would demand to see Conall in person. That certainly would have been awkward.

  But as always, nobody was going to argue with the ambassador from the King of Leinster, and the guard let him pass.

  The subsequent ride to Brodar’s manor took a little more than an hour, the contract for Brodar’s death all the while burning a hole in Conall’s pocket. He could feel the weight of it far more than the slight piece of paper warranted.

  Located slightly southeast of Dublin at Tully, amidst rolling hills, which sloped gently downward from east to west, Brodar’s house afforded views that would allow him to see an enemy coming long before he reached Tully. The farm consisted of a dozen fields, pastureland, a church, and a small village. Brodar hadn’t inherited the throne of Dublin, but the land on the east coast of Ireland, land his family had spent centuries working, was still his.

  At the entrance to the farm, Conall showed the paper he’d written for himself, the same one that had gotten him past the guard in Dublin. Likely the man who guarded the entrance to the manor couldn’t read either, but he recognized the seal of Leinster and admitted Conall into the yard.

  He’d been to Brodar’s house only once before, having ridden from Dublin with Godfrid at the beginning of the year. It was then that Brodar and Godfrid had fully brought him into their conspiracy against Ottar. At the time, the palisade that had protected Brodar’s manor had enclosed a smaller space and hadn’t included the two towers Conall saw today.

  As Conall dismounted, Brodar himself stepped out the front of his house, and the door was open long enough for the wailing of a child to echo into the yard. Though well into the afternoon by now, he appeared to have just finished his ablutions, since his hair was wet. Some Danes shaved elaborate designs into their hair to distinguish themselves from others, but Brodar had merely slicked his back from his face and bound it in a single tail at the base of his neck. His hair and beard were darker than Godfrid’s, more brown than blond, and he was shorter too, though just as stocky.

  Conall lifted a hand to him. “Congratulations on the birth of your child.”

  “Thank you. A son. God is good.” Brodar’s eyes narrowed for a moment as he took in Conall’s appearance and then widened as he got closer. “My lord Conall? Is that really you under that hat?”

  Conall laughed. “Yes, it is I, in the guise of my dear friend Fergus the sailor.”

  Brodar made a circuit around Conall, still laughing. “I like it. What girl could resist such a figure of a man?”

  “You’d be surprised. Conall doesn’t stand a chance by comparison.” He had spread his arms wide as Brodar had inspected him, but now he dropped them. “We have to talk.”

  “So I guessed.”

  Conall tipped his head towards the newly constructed defenses. “I’m glad you’re taking the threat of an attack seriously.”

  “I started the preparations for taking down the old wall and putting up the new one on the day after we talked. Are you saying that I’m going to be glad I did?”

  Some might think Brodar foolish for leaving the city at all, but to Conall’s mind, Dublin was no safer for him and his family. Conall knew for certain that Brodar had a boat moored on his land’s tributary to the Shanganagh River, which would take him to the sea two miles away if he needed a quick escape.

  “Definitely, and you’ll know it too when I show you what we’ve found.” He pulled the warrant from h
is coat and handed it to Brodar.

  “We?”

  “Your brother and I.” Conall didn’t think he needed to mention Cait’s role in the investigation just yet.

  Brodar unrolled the paper and began reading. He read the document through twice, his face nearly expressionless throughout, before he finally looked up at Conall. “Where did you get this?”

  Conall explained how he and Godfrid had spent their morning, and at his conclusion, Brodar took in a deep breath. “I am sorry to hear about the loss of Rikard. He was a true friend if he died protecting me.”

  Conall didn’t know if that was exactly what had happened, but he could see why it appeared so to Brodar. “So it seems.”

  “Odd that I’m still alive.” He allowed the paper to roll back into a scroll and held it up. “Why?”

  “The way I read it, Rikard was the go-between, not the intended recipient. This contract was on its way to someone else.”

  “Who never received it.”

  “Not unless this is merely a copy.”

  “Does Ottar know you have it?”

  “Definitely not. Whether or not he thinks it has been delivered yet is also something I cannot say. Nor can I tell you if the person Rikard was meeting with last night in the warehouse has anything to do with this, or if that meeting was arranged for a different evening in the future. The fact that Ottar sent your brother to investigate Rikard’s death, however, implies that he wasn’t worried about what Godfrid would find.

  Brodar looked rueful. “Godfrid and I got Rikard mixed up in our business, and it cost him his life.”

  “Godfrid said the same thing.” Conall wasn’t going to argue the point, as he too found it likely. He had no words of comfort either. When Brodar became king, he would be responsible for the lives of all his people. And when he sent men to war, which he would inevitably do, or to the sea to trade, some would never come home. A king had to accept his responsibility for that fact, and if he couldn’t, he shouldn’t be king.

  When his father was alive, Brodar had been more reckless than he was now, as evidenced by his journey to Wales with Ottar at the request of Prince Cadwaladr, seeking wealth and status. Fortunately, he had not been among the Danes who’d actually ambushed and killed King Anarawd at Cadwaladr’s behest. If he had been, he would be dead.

  Brodar tapped the scroll against his thigh as he thought. “Sturla wrote in Latin, not Danish. Why?”

  “I wondered at that too,” Conall said. “Almost all court proceedings are done in Danish.”

  “As is most of our business. Our merchants correspond with one another in Danish to protect our trade routes and cargo.”

  Conall nodded. “You have a greater proportion of literate men among the leaders of Dublin than in any court I’ve ever been in, but most of these men read only Danish, not Latin, unless they are with the Church.”

  Brodar wrinkled his nose. “I would hope that, no matter their personal loyalties, my murder was not meant to be carried out by a priest!”

  “Not a priest, perhaps, but what if the warrant wasn’t meant to be read by Danes?” Conall’s heart started beating a little faster. “Come to think on it, the Welsh are the same as you, preferring to correspond among themselves in Welsh, but when they have cause to communicate with another country, they switch to Latin.” He paused. “Which potentially rules out collusion with Denmark, with whom I know Ottar has been corresponding.”

  Brodar took that news with hardly more than a narrowing of the eyes. “You are one of the few Irishmen who can read Danish.”

  “Thank you for not thinking your death warrant was meant for me.”

  But Brodar’s head had come up, and his eyes were surveying his domain as if expecting any moment to be attacked. “Who do you suspect? Can I rule out Leinster?”

  “My king can’t have been the intended recipient, but he has rivals, as you know, any one of whom could be conspiring with Ottar to overthrow him.” It was a direction Conall’s thoughts had not taken him earlier. “I would tell you if I knew of a plan from any direction, not just from Leinster. I’m sorry to say that I don’t.”

  Brodar continued to scan the horizon, the bags under his eyes plainly evident. The man was exhausted, to be expected of the father of a newborn. But even so, Conall read a knowledge and a wariness within his expression that piqued his interest.

  He took a step closer. “Why are you asking me for the identity of the intended recipient when you already know?”

  Brodar pressed his lips together for a moment before answering. “I’ve seen the way you and Godfrid go at each other when anyone is watching. Godfrid didn’t even tell me that it was a game until just before you came to visit. He trusts you.”

  “He does.”

  “And you trust him?”

  “With my life, if it ever came to that.” Conall had never put his feelings into words before, but now that he had, he knew he spoke the truth.

  “I understand you have a mutual friend in Gareth the Welshman?”

  “We do.”

  “He is a good man. Brave.” He glanced at Conall. “I met him first, you know.”

  Conall canted his head, not wanting to digress, but curious about a story he perhaps hadn’t heard in full. “I did not know that.”

  “We were leaving Aberystwyth, having taken the gold Cadwaladr owed us, when Gareth caught us on the beach. Instead of running me through, not that he could have, he joined our ship to sail to Ireland.”

  “To retrieve Gwen, his wife,” Conall said, not as a question.

  “She wasn’t his wife then. I saw afterwards that perhaps I hadn’t done my brother any favors, since he wanted her for himself. But he gave her up to Gareth.”

  Conall had guessed that there was more going on among Gareth, Gwen, and Godfrid than he’d heard so far. The trio hadn’t been reticent about their friendship, but nobody had ever said that Godfrid had asked for Gwen. Then again, maybe it hadn’t ever gone that far.

  “Two men have developed a strong bond indeed when they can overcome that kind of disagreement,” Conall said, pleased to have learned Brodar’s side of the story.

  Brodar canted his head. “You are not wrong, and you can learn much about a man on a journey across the sea. Despite what Godfrid may once have felt for Gwen, he no longer looks in that direction, and he and Gareth have had each other’s backs.”

  Conall nodded. “So I understand, but I would hope that I have also earned Godfrid’s trust this past year by my own actions.”

  “You have.” Brodar breathed deeply. “Thus, I will tell you ... Your news only confirms the rumors I’ve been hearing coming out of the west. The men of Brega are rising again. Ottar has angered them many times over the years. It wasn’t enough to kill my father. They want to push all the Danes into the sea and take the port of Dublin for themselves, never mind that they would have no idea what to do with it. They are not merchants like we are, nor explorers.”

  “Why, then, do you suspect they are involved with Ottar? He doesn’t want Dublin pushed into the sea.”

  “Exactly.”

  Conall’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying? He is bribing them with your death in exchange for what? Peace? That’s all the benefit to Ottar, and none to Brega. Why would they want you dead?”

  Brodar frowned. “I don’t know.”

  Conall scoffed. “It is Ottar who sacked Kells four times, not you.”

  Brodar managed a laugh. “War does make a man’s blood flow in his veins.”

  “Sometimes a man thinks with the wrong part of his body,” Conall said wryly. Then he put up a hand. “I wasn’t judging. My people are no better, as you well know.”

  Brodar was very sober. “I find myself less in love with war these days. I would prefer not to foul my own nest.”

  “You see Ireland as your home.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Of course.” Brodar spoke as if it were obvious, which Conall supposed it should have been.

  To the Irish, the Danes we
re interlopers, invaders. They always had been and always would be. But Danes like Brodar—and Godfrid—had never been to Denmark. To them Ireland was home, and they were no different from any other people, fighting like the devil to keep what they saw as theirs. Ottar was the exception, in that he had been born and raised on the Isle of Man. He clearly wanted to be a king, but he cared only about his own power. He would have been happy to be king of any country. He’d just seen opportunity in Ireland.

  Brodar held out the scroll to Conall. “Has your king seen this?”

  Conall didn’t accept the document. “Not yet, but I agree that he should as soon as possible.”

  “He might be more inclined to support my cause if Ottar conspires not only against me but against Leinster.” Brodar’s tone was hopeful.

  Conall nodded sharply. “I agree. May I suggest that you send a rider to him at once. I am constantly under watch—” he gestured to himself, “—thus the disguise, and I would rather not do it myself.”

  “Of course.” Brodar dropped his arm and turned away again, this time looking directly west. The ground sloped upward from his manor towards the hills in the distance. He was right to fear what might descend on him from those heights. “Godfrid told me once that you always think several moves ahead of everyone else. I confess, I wish I had the gift.”

  Conall was already in support of Brodar’s claim to the throne, but his words were affirming. A man who could admit ignorance and fault was far more powerful than one, like Ottar, who could not. Bombast and bluster could fool the people for a while, but when the promised prosperity didn’t appear, they might start looking underneath the brash exterior for something more substantive. Too bad, in Ottar’s case, they would find nothing there.

  Then Brodar shook himself. “Where are my manners? Though my wife will wonder at entertaining an Irish sailor, may I offer you refreshment?”

  “I must return to Dublin. Things are happening quickly now, and your brother may need me. That death warrant is real, but the rest is still guesswork. I fear for us all if we don’t discover soon how and why Rikard died.”