When Conall had entered the laying out room, Godfrid had looked more weary than he’d ever seen him. But now, with the arrival of Abbot Rhys, though the weariness remained, Godfrid had a renewed spark in his eyes. Abbot Rhys had arrived in Ireland a month ago to participate in a conference with abbots from all over Ireland and Wales. Until that time, Conall hadn’t realized that Godfrid and Rhys hadn’t actually ever met. Conall had remedied that lack immediately, at the time using Gregory’s church as a safe place for them to confer. Rhys had brought word from Gareth and Gwen, particularly regarding the arrival of their son, Taran, along with the broader news of the world beyond the Irish Sea.
Tonight, the four of them settled around the large table in the center of Conall’s house. Bláthin was right there with a platter of bread, cheese, and meats, followed by a large flagon of mead, which Godfrid immediately picked up and drained. She refilled it, and his expression finally eased into something more Godfrid-like. He even took a piece of bread and buttered it.
“Examining the bodies was that bad?” Conall asked.
“There is a great difference between being on hand when Gareth investigates a victim of murder and being the one who takes the lead oneself.”
Conall nodded, his eyes on his friend. Cait, who was sitting beside Godfrid, put a hand on the prince’s arm. “I hope my presence didn’t make it worse.”
Godfrid shook his head, looking down at her. “I was grateful you were there.” Then he turned back to Conall. “I’ll have you know that Cait had originally declined to participate, in large part because she knew you would object.”
“It was my place to be there. If it had been just Rikard, I wouldn’t have, of course, but Deirdre needed me.”
Conall pressed his lips together, his eyes flicking from his sister to his friend and back again, trying not to smile. They were two intelligent, stubborn, independent people, and yet they were sitting beside each other very companionably. He had never seen Cait so accommodating to any man before, not even—and maybe especially—her late husband. Certainly not to Conall himself. He had initially been highly amused by the thought of them together, but now he was going to have to take it seriously and decide how he felt about it—and then he laughed to himself because what he thought might shortly be entirely irrelevant.
Godfrid tipped his head. “What did my brother have to say?”
Conall launched into the details, and when he finished, Godfrid was looking grumpy again. “Ottar is so two-faced. The Bregans killed my father, and yet rather than ally with us to face them, or at the very least allow us to confront them alone, he seeks to ally with them against us. They will have no respect at all for him now.”
“First, we solve the murder of Deirdre. Then you can think about rebellion.” Though Cait’s words were decisive, her tone was amused rather than repressive.
“I know; I know.” Godfrid reached for her hand and squeezed.
Conall glanced towards Abbot Rhys, who was looking on with something of an amused expression himself. He was, in fact, more jovial in this moment than Conall had ever seen him. “Did I ever tell you how Gareth and I met?”
Conall raised his eyebrows. “He was investigating a murder, I presume.”
“He was. The first time he appeared at my monastery, he was on the way to Chester, and my information allowed him to hunt down a young man who’d attempted to assassinate King Owain. I could tell within moments of meeting him that Gareth was a worthy fellow, but I had no notion I’d ever see him again. He returned at an inconvenient hour—after midnight,” he shot a grin at the others, “as of course it would be. One of my brothers came to fetch me. It was my information that then allowed him to apprehend the traitor within King Owain’s ranks, the one who’d actually arranged for that assassination.”
“And you’ve been helping him ever since.” Conall nodded. “In what way do you think you can help us now?”
Rhys tipped his head to Cait. “First, let me just say that I’ve come from the newly dedicated Bective Abbey, where I have been participating in a conclave of abbots from all over Ireland.”
Cait bobbed her head. “I didn’t know, but thank you for clarifying.”
Rhys nodded too: “We have discussed at length the state of affairs in the secular world and the extent to which none of us can ignore what is happening beyond our respective walls.”
Both Conall and Godfrid straightened. “And?”
“Brodar is right that Brega is unsettled.” Rhys’s eyes narrowed as he looked from one to the other. “I am glad I haven’t caught you entirely off guard, but it’s worse than you know. I have reason to believe that the high king himself is behind the unrest. Or rather, one of his sons is.” He grimaced. “And he has set his sights on Leinster.”
“Let me guess,” Conall said. “You speak of Donnell.”
Turlough O’Connor, High King of Ireland, had ruled for forty years. He’d overthrown his own brother to take the throne and had held doggedly onto the reins ever since. Fifteen years ago, Turlough had opposed King Diarmait’s ascension to the throne of Leinster after the unexpected death of Diarmait’s older brother and had sent his son Rory on a campaign of death and destruction across Leinster. It was only when the rest of the clans of Leinster had risen up to oppose Rory that Diarmait had managed to retake the throne.
Since then, Turlough and Diarmait had maintained an uneasy peace, to the point of occasionally becoming allies, a necessary accommodation to hold off Connaught’s more hated rivals, the O’Briens of Thomond. But Turlough had more than twenty sons, and the infighting among them had surpassed any sibling machinations in the history of brotherly rivalry, up to and including Cain and Abel.
While Danes held to a tradition of having only one wife and (usually) allowing only legitimate sons to inherit, Irish kings could have multiple wives. Though more fair to the child in question, it often resulted in situations exactly like what the O’Connor clan was currently experiencing: all the sons of a high king’s many simultaneous wives vied for the throne, which could only seat one man at a time. Donnell was older than Rory, and his father had chosen him as his heir, but that didn’t stop Rory from thinking he had a chance, even though he was the son of his father’s third wife.
The Welsh had a similar problem, except they’d gone so far as not to bother with having the king marry every woman who produced a child for him. All children were legitimate if the father acknowledged them. Conall supposed the advantage of that was it made the king’s household quieter and less full of women vying for their lord’s attention. Though, according to Hywel, that hadn’t stopped Cristina from plotting to raise the status of her own sons.
Cait had been her husband’s only wife. While Diarmait had wanted her to marry Niall, this was only after she’d turned down the offers of several men for whom she would have been their second or third wife, all still living. Maybe some women could make that work, but having grown up in a household in which her mother’s second marriage (the first being to Conall’s father), meant that she shared the house with two other wives, Cait knew it wasn’t for her, and her uncle had accepted her right to make that decision.
“No need to guess,” Rhys said. “It’s a certainty. Donnell was named his father’s heir, but after last year’s aborted raid against the O’Briens, he is finding that he has lost much favor. His brother Rory is on fire to be named in his place, and his star has been on the rise. Leinster has no fond memories of that one, I’d guess.”
“We do not,” Conall said. “What is he planning?”
“Of late, it has been impossible for Connaught to make headway against the O’Briens, so Donnell has been seeking a way to solidify his position through other means.”
Godfrid’s jaw dropped as his understanding finally caught up. “He is getting at Leinster by turning his attention to us?”
Rhys nodded. “He has allied with the Bregans, who need only a single spark to ignite into a conflagration. What could be a better path to the throne than rid
ding Ireland of the hated Danes forever while at the same time depriving Leinster of a significant source of wealth?”
Cait wet her lips. “Our uncle is not going to be happy to hear any of this. He has been assiduously courting Donnell, even to the point of suggesting an alliance with me.” Here, she interjected a snort. “Not that it will ever happen.”
Conall gave her a small smile. “Indeed. But if Donnell thinks he can take Dublin from Leinster—or remove Godfrid’s people from the table entirely—he is going to have to fight us for the right.”
To Conall’s surprise, Godfrid laughed. “You and I will no longer be unique! What a sight that would be to see Irishmen and Danes fighting together.”
“It would hardly be the first time,” Rhys said. “In the Battle of Contarf, the King of Leinster fought alongside the King of Dublin against the High King.”
Conall tsked through his teeth. “And lost, as I recall. If this comes to pass, we’d be wise to take steps to ensure their fate is not ours.”
“I hear you, friend.” Godfrid looked at Rhys. “I cannot thank you enough for bringing us this news. Is it common knowledge among the clans?”
“I wouldn’t say so. This comes from the Abbot of Killaloe himself.”
Conall laughed, and Godfrid’s head swung around to look at him. “Am I right that Killaloe is in Thomond?”
It was Cait who answered. “The O’Briens seek to make mischief, dare I say as usual.”
“But in this case, we appreciate it.” Godfrid looked again to Rhys. “He knew you would tell me, yes?”
“Oh yes. The O’Briens have no wish to see Dublin fall to anyone from Connaught. They don’t like King Diarmait, but they like the O’Connors even less.”
“Do we tell Ottar?” Cait asked.
Godfrid and Conall studied each other. “We may have to,” Godfrid said finally.
“It depends on how quickly Donnell and his Bregan allies are moving,” Conall said.
“What of the investigation?” Cait said. “Where do these deaths fit into any of this?”
“I can tell you what I observed,” Godfrid said. “Rikard doesn’t have any bruising around the mouth or on his face. He wasn’t suffocated or stabbed. He had some vomit in his mouth, but he has no other wounds.”
“Could he have been poisoned?” Cait said. “Is that why he vomited?”
Conall’s eyes widened. “Wine could have been poured onto the floor not to cover up blood but to prevent anyone else from drinking it.” Then he frowned. “I’m not sure that makes sense either, since the wine was poured after Rikard was in the vault. And if it was tainted, better to dump it on the ground outside.”
Godfrid shook his head. “I find myself totally out of my depth with this investigation.”
“I don’t see that,” Rhys said. “You are doing just what Gareth and Gwen would have done: asking questions, poking your nose into everyone’s business, and waiting for something to happen. Rikard died only this morning. It’s early days yet.”
“Perhaps it would help to talk about what we know rather than what we don’t know.” Cait raised one finger, reminding Conall enormously of Gwen. “Rikard was found dead in his vault. He had arranged to be left alone last night at the warehouse, ostensibly for a business meeting. Deirdre was murdered sometime last night, presumably in the vicinity of the warehouse—or at least she was dumped there. Strangled, right?” She looked at Godfrid.
“She was beaten first and then strangled, and her body was rolled in hemp sacking and left in an alley. I would have thought the river would have been a better choice, but perhaps the murderer knew he couldn’t get the body through the gate and decided simply to leave it in a convenient spot.”
“We have at least one murderer, then, one who may or may not have had something to do with Rikard’s death,” Cait said.
“Rikard’s warehouse was ransacked,” Conall added, “and someone poured wine on the floor after Rikard was already in his vault.”
Godfrid spoke again. “Furthermore, Rikard was trading in secrets as well as goods. It is through him that we know about Ottar’s negotiations with Knut of Denmark and the call for Brodar’s head, neither of which are currently public knowledge.”
“It would not be a misguided assumption to think that the impetus behind all of this is what Rikard knew,” Conall said, “but he was also a rich man.”
“Greed is the oldest motive, that and its close cousin, jealousy.” Rhys had been listening closely throughout their narrative.
Cait made a rueful face. “I have to say that the thief was remarkably inept at his work if he ransacked the warehouse but didn’t steal Rikard’s gold medallion.”
“He didn’t ransack the vault either,” Conall said. “Why?”
“I have no idea!” Godfrid said.
When they looked at him, Rhys also shrugged. “I am only a student like you.”
Godfrid picked up his cup, but before he took another long drink, he grumbled under his breath, something Conall was sure was along the lines of: Where is Gareth when we need him?
Chapter Seventeen
Day Two
Conall
“Where are you going?” Still in her borrowed nightdress, Cait looked down at Conall as he stood on the floor of the main hall. He had breakfasted already, bathed and dressed, and was preparing to leave the house.
It had been late evening by the time they’d finished their meeting with Rhys, too late to accomplish anything further on what had turned into a brutally long day. Rhys had retired to the quarters provided for him by Bishop Gregory in the enclave of the cathedral. The pull of home was growing stronger, and Rhys had confessed that he was worried about how his prior had managed his brothers while he was gone. But he agreed to stay a few days more, if only to learn how things turned out in Dublin.
Both Godfrid and Conall had given him a message of congratulations to Gareth and Gwen, and Godfrid had returned to his home to spend the rest of the evening composing a letter to Hywel for Rhys to deliver. He had promised to let Conall add his own message once he was finished.
Conall looked up at his sister. “What do we do when we are looking for answers in an investigation?”
Cait frowned. “Is that Gareth the Welshman speaking again?”
“Close enough. Prince Hywel, in this instance.” Conall continued: “We ask questions and listen to the answers, which then lead us to more questions until we find the one answer that will give us our killer. My aim this morning is to ask more questions.”
Cait looked a bit disgruntled. “I want to come too.”
“Not to the docks.”
“I see you’re not going as Fergus the Sailor. Why not?”
“The disguise is growing thin, I think, especially there, since my ship sailed away two days ago. I may have to retire him permanently.” Conall put up a hand. “Bathe, eat, rest a while. I will return and then we will decide where to go from here. I won’t do anything else without you or without at least telling you I’m doing it. I promise.”
Cait looked slightly mollified, but even if she hadn’t, Conall wouldn’t have brought her to the wharf. He meant what he said. While she’d spent the last three weeks in slave quarters in the warehouse district of Dublin, the docks were no place for a woman, much less the lady she had become.
A quarter of an hour later, he knocked on the door of Thorfin’s warehouse and was admitted by a harried foreman, who merely gestured towards the back of the building to where Thorfin sat at a table, his head in his hands, staring down at papers in front of him. The rear door was open, letting in the bright morning light. Even so, Thorfin was flanked left and right by candelabra, which appeared to be giving him enough light to read by.
If Conall hadn’t wanted another look in the vault yesterday, he might have barged in while Thorfin had been meeting with Finn and asked questions of them both. In retrospect, he was glad he hadn’t. He’d learned a great deal more since then, the better to beard Thorfin in his den, so to speak.
/>
“Finn came to me to explain what happened.” Although there’d been tension in Thorfin’s posture as he’d gazed down at the documents before him, at Conall’s approach, Thorfin ranged back in his chair and affected a casual pose, waving a hand to indicate that Conall was welcome to sit in the chair opposite. “He related where he’d been all this time, to head off any objections or obstacles to his inheritance. He actually apologized for living.”
Conall took the merchant up on his offer of a seat, desiring in this moment to stay unconfrontational. “What did you say to that?”
“I laughed.” Thorfin was a large, well-built, handsome man, near in size to Godfrid, though twenty years older, with a big laugh that reverberated around this section of the warehouse. He had an open manner about him, which made questioning him easy. Conall distrusted it, of course. “With his resurrection, Finn knew I would be disappointed. Since Sanne is my daughter, upon Rikard’s death, I would have assumed responsibility for her business interests. I told Finn that my disappointment was short-lived, since I hadn’t realized Rikard was dead until he told me.”
“But with the loss of his sons, for the last two years you must have been assuming you would take over when he died. Rikard wasn’t going to live forever. He was sixty, wasn’t he?”
“And me a decade younger? I did hope to outlive him and, with any luck, blend his business into my own to pass on to my sons. I wanted that, it’s true.” Then he gestured expansively to his domain and gave Conall a sardonic smile. “Somehow, I will find the strength to carry on.”
“And Arno?”
Thorfin’s brow furrowed. “What about Arno?”
Conall thought Thorfin was being deliberately obtuse, and it irked him. The man was smart and intuitive and should have no need to play games with Conall. “What would Arno’s role have been in your business with Rikard dead? Would you have dissolved the partnership or continued with him?”
The Viking Prince Page 15