“Oh, continued, certainly. Arno is a gifted negotiator.”
“But?”
Thorfin waggled his head. “But he is no good at the part of a business that actually includes running it. That was Rikard’s gift. He knew men, and he had an intuitive understanding of what people wanted. It was he who told Arno where to go and what to buy from one place to sell in another.”
“Arno spoke yesterday when we talked to him of a new source of wine he was pleased to open up for trading.”
“In France? I know about that. I confess I was jealous of that contract.” Thorfin paused thoughtfully. “Arno is going to need assistance with the running of the company. Perhaps I will speak to him.”
“He has Finn.”
Thorfin made a dismissive gesture, though, until he spoke, Conall wasn’t sure if he meant to dismiss Finn or the comment. “Finn may have found purpose in his years away, but he lacks experience. He’s going to need advice and assistance.”
Conall leaned back in his chair. “Which you can provide.” It wasn’t a question.
“I am his step-grandfather. Family.” He nodded. “I see prosperity in Dublin’s future.”
Conall managed to swallow down a snort at the self-satisfied pose Thorfin was maintaining. It was a little too casual, in fact, and he longed to disturb his overt complacency. “I heard you lost three ships this spring and accused Rikard of sending his men to sink them. I heard you were in debt.”
Thorfin had been reaching for the sideboard where two cups and a flagon rested, but he stopped in mid-motion. “Who told you that?”
Conall shrugged in a manner he knew had to be irritating.
Thorfin pointed a finger. “It was that witch Ragnhild?” Conall didn’t think he’d given himself away, but Thorfin laughed anyway and poured Conall a cup of wine. “It was, wasn’t it?”
“I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”
“But you can come here and ask me anything you like?” The question was combative, but then Thorfin’s hand waved again, back to his affable attitude. “It is a temporary shortfall, that is all. Nothing to worry about. What did Finn say about his visit to me?”
“Again, I can’t comment.”
Thorfin smiled before taking a sip of his drink. “Do you actually think Finn had something to do with his father’s death?”
Conall made another noncommittal motion with his head.
“So you suspect me. On what grounds?”
“You had something to gain, more than most.”
Suddenly Thorfin was on his feet. “It’s time to go. We are due at the church shortly.”
Conall stood with Thorfin but without understanding. “We are?”
“Hadn’t you heard? The mass for Rikard is this morning.” He put up one finger, pointing to the ceiling, telling Conall to listen.
Sure enough, in the distance, bells tolled. If he knew Danish funerals, afterwards he would be expected to feast at the palace.
“Half of Dublin is invited, though nobody will be turned away today. I would have thought someone would have told you.”
Conall tried to keep his face expressionless. “An oversight, I’m sure. And I’ve been up for hours. Perhaps the messenger tried to find me and couldn’t.”
“Of course. That must be it.”
But as Conall walked beside Thorfin out of the warehouse, he picked up the pace. He’d been home all evening and this morning until an hour ago. The only reasonable conclusion he could draw was that it had been an intentional lapse.
Chapter Eighteen
Day Two
Godfrid
“I shouldn’t be sitting here,” Conall said as he settled himself on the bench next to Godfrid and Cait. “But it’s so crowded hopefully we can get away with it. When did you learn the funeral mass was today?”
All of them could have found seats closer to Ottar in the front row, where he was sitting with his chief supporters. Introducing Cait to Ottar was Conall’s role, and Godfrid was just as happy to pray in peace and not have to speak to Ottar just yet. He hadn’t yet managed to damp down his irritation at the king, and he needed to remain in control of himself. Ottar’s downfall was so close Godfrid could practically taste it. He wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize something for which they’d worked so hard.
“I learned far too late to do anything about it,” Godfrid said, keeping his voice well below the hum of the crowd. “They’re burying both Deirdre and Rikard this morning whether I want them to or not.”
Cait picked up the story. “Apparently, last night Holm reported everything he’d discovered so far and that Godfrid was examining the bodies. King Ottar consulted with Bishop Gregory after we left, and they decided that the burial should be now.” She was sitting between Godfrid and Conall to bolster the illusion that Conall was with them only because he didn’t want to leave her alone with Godfrid. She was wearing a different dress from the red one Ragnhild had given her, though not her slave garments. It was dark gray and didn’t suit her, and Godfrid guessed Conall’s cook had come up with it.
To bury a man the day after he died was customary, particularly in late spring. Bodies begin to smell very quickly after death, and Godfrid could understand why Gregory wanted Rikard and Deirdre in the ground.
Godfrid nodded. “That isn’t what’s bothering me.”
“It’s the fact that nobody bothered to tell us.” Conall finished his thought for him. “Is it an oversight or a deliberate desire to embarrass us?”
“To my mind, it’s because Ottar wanted the bodies in the ground,” Godfrid said, “and not because of the smell.”
“Was there more to learn from them?” Conall asked.
Godfrid shrugged. “I can’t help but think that if I had more experience in these matters, I would have learned everything I needed to the first time around. At the same time, Ottar doesn’t respect me and might not have listened to me anyway.”
Conall grimaced. “You are a prince with less authority than Gareth.”
“Admittedly, his authority is well-earned.” Godfrid shook his head. “I didn’t even have a chance to consult with an herbalist about the possibility that Rikard was poisoned. I should not have assumed that I could leave it until morning.”
“We had a long day yesterday,” Cait said. “The mind needs food and rest to remain sharp.”
Godfrid patted her hand as it lay on her lap. “Unfortunately, today may be an even longer day and much worse because of what I didn’t do.”
“I didn’t go out again either,” Conall said. “This isn’t all on you.”
“Our great-grandfather was poisoned,” Cait said in a casual tone. “Even knowing that, when my mother tried to teach me about herbs and healing, I wasn’t interested.”
“Gwen knows her herbs,” Conall said.
Cait wrinkled her nose at her brother. “I must meet this woman. I’m feeling quite intimidated.”
“She can sing too,” Godfrid said, intending to tease, but at Cait’s continued sour expression, he added, “Sadly, you may never meet her. Only an event of great importance would get her in a ship. The voyage across the Irish Sea is not even two full days, but she gets terribly seasick.”
Cait snorted. “I have that on her, anyway.”
Godfrid made to put his hand on hers again, but he drew it back before he touched her. Though he’d patted her hand earlier, he was uncertain if he had the right. “There’s no competition here. Nobody is perfect. She was a spy for Hywel, as you were for Diarmait, but she could never have lived as you’ve done these last weeks.”
Cait looked slightly mollified, and then her expression cleared. As usual, her temper was short lived. “More experience would be welcome, I do admit. And I wouldn’t mind some insight into the minds of the women here. Very often two heads are better than one.”
“Almost always, I’ve found,” Godfrid said.
Then the chanting in Latin that marked the start of the funeral mass began at the back of the church, and
the three of them stopped talking. Godfrid was interested to see Abbot Rhys near the front of the row of priests in the choir, and he thought he could make out his baritone, rising above the rest. Bishop Gregory had been wise to include a Welshman in the service. Godfrid hadn’t yet met one who couldn’t sing.
Godfrid was very aware of how close he was sitting to Cait—or maybe how close she was sitting to him—but he had no place to go that would put more room between them, and he didn’t want to anyway. Cait herself seemed content, though halfway through the mass, her hair brushed against his arm, and then her head leaned against his shoulder. She was asleep.
Even though Godfrid himself had been exhausted last night, he had lain awake for hours—and not an insignificant amount of his ruminating had been about her. But he didn’t inquire what Conall thought about the interest Godfrid was taking in his sister. Nor what their uncle might think. For now, any such worry was somewhere down the road.
Conall, meanwhile, said in a whisper, “These last weeks have been harder on her than she will admit.” Then he straightened and said a little louder. “Don’t think I’m not keeping an eye on you, faithless prince.”
Godfrid kept his face expressionless, and said out of the side of his mouth, just loud enough for the good people in front of him to hear. “Your tongue bites like a horsefly, my lord.”
Godfrid was quiet for some time, allowing the words of the mass to wash over him. Then as the people around him shuffled and rose to their feet, he stayed sitting, since he didn’t want to wake Cait, and said softly to Conall, who stayed sitting too, “I don’t know if I could have done what she did. It’s one thing to pretend to be something other than what you are, but it is quite another to cede control of yourself in the process. She was a slave.”
“I hope you can forgive me someday for letting her do it.” Conall’s tone was light, but his expression, when Godfrid looked at him, was very serious.
Godfrid pressed his lips together, trying to find the right words to say. He hadn’t realized until Conall spoke—perceptive as usual—how much it bothered him. “I accept that the choice was not yours, and I’m glad to know that you remained close by in a disguise of your own.”
Then he closed his eyes for a moment as he took in a deep breath and let it out, attempting to ease the tension in his back. Still leaning against him, Cait stirred, but remained asleep. Meanwhile, the mass went on.
Conall nodded. “You and I both know that to do otherwise would have been unforgivable.”
Godfrid waited through a pause in the singing, smelling the incense wafting towards him from the thurible. “I would like to ask you of her husband. She implied that it was not a happy marriage.”
Conall looked sharply at him. “He is dead, Godfrid.”
Godfrid looked down at his hands, understanding that Conall was telling him to look forward, not back.
But then Conall shrugged. “He had no children, so she inherited everything he had. She owns extensive estates in Leinster.” He smiled ruefully. “It turns out Cait has a fine head for business. She needs a steward only because she chooses to be away. Not content with doing the same thing every day is our Cait.”
Godfrid smiled as he glanced down at the top of Cait’s head. Her breathing remained soft and even, and he was loath to wake her, but the final invocation had begun. Giving in to impulse, as he had when they’d discovered Deirdre’s body, he kissed the top of her head. “It’s time to wake up.”
Cait straightened and blinked, and then she looked slightly askance at Godfrid, realizing that she’d been leaning against him for almost the entire mass. “I’m sorry. I-I—”
He grasped her hand. “Conall and I were just discussing the fact that you’ve had a hard time of it. I was happy to serve as your pillar.”
Still with her hand in his, he rose to his feet and lifted her as well. They stood to watch the priest and his acolytes progress back down the aisle, followed by Ottar and his men. As the king passed by, Godfrid bent his head, deliberately avoiding Ottar’s gaze. Unfortunately, he didn’t wait long enough to look up again and found the king’s attention fixed on Cait. Ottar’s steps slowed, and his followers bunched up behind him.
For a moment, it was as if everything in Godfrid’s immediate vicinity slowed down too. The colors brightened, the lilac scent of Cait’s hair filled his nostrils, and to his dismay, he met the eyes of the king full on. He endeavored as always to maintain as bland an expression on his face as possible, but Ottar’s eyes widened. Godfrid didn’t know if he was merely surprised to see him with such a beautiful woman—and one he didn’t know—or if he was reading something in Godfrid’s face that alarmed him.
Hatred, maybe.
Then the world speeded up again, Godfrid deliberately allowed the crush of people to shift Cait and him around, and he found himself facing away from the king.
Perceptive as always, Conall made a humming sound at the back of his throat. “I should have introduced Cait to Ottar last night. An oversight.”
Now that the king was past them, Cait began edging towards the main aisle. As Godfrid went to follow, Conall caught his arm, and she got a few paces ahead. It allowed Conall to say in an undertone. “I didn’t tell you the rest of my conversation with Brodar, but I feel I must now. He has plans for you to woo and ultimately marry Sanne.”
Godfrid had been only half-listening, since his eyes were on Cait’s back, but at Conall’s words, he gaped down at him. “What?”
“He said you would be pleased to do your duty. I didn’t disabuse him of the idea, but I see now that I should have.”
Godfrid felt a flash of anger at his brother, an anger he allowed to show on his face, since onlookers would assume it was directed at Conall. He had been nothing but loyal, doing everything in his power to restore their family so Brodar could become king, keeping nothing tangible for himself except the right to make his own choice in matters of the heart. Then he took another breath and unclenched his fists. Sanne, like Cait, was a widow, and within Danish law, could now make her own choices. It was the only time a woman had more say over her life than Godfrid did over his own.
Calmer, he nodded at Conall. “Thank you for telling me.”
“It seemed necessary.” Conall’s eyes flicked from Godfrid to Cait, who’d found a spot by the door to wait, openly telling Godfrid that he was aware of whatever might be transpiring between them. “Is there something you need to say to me?”
Godfrid took in a breath. “Yes, but—” he shook his head, “—not yet. I don’t know what’s in her mind.”
Conall studied him a moment, long enough for them to suddenly be all but alone in the church. The look was also long enough for Godfrid to feel uncomfortable—even worried—about what Conall was thinking. But then his friend said, “I wish you both happiness, whatever God has in store for you.”
Godfrid eased out a breath. “Thank you. That’s certainly all I wish for her.”
* * * * *
As at mass, the three of them chose to sit at a table near the front of Ottar’s hall, but not with Ottar on the dais. It was again in defiance of their public hatred of each other, but they hoped their proximity would be viewed as a convenience rather than choice. Both certainly could have found room at the high table, but neither dined so often at the palace that they were an accustomed sight at that table—and neither wanted to sit within conversational distance of Ottar anyway.
Godfrid had spoken honestly when he’d told Conall that he had no idea if what he felt growing between him and Cait had lasting power or might result in a true meeting of the minds, but he counted himself lucky that Cait sat next to him again almost as a matter of course.
They had just settled themselves when Sturla approached and bent stiffly at the waist in Conall’s direction. “King Ottar requests that you approach the high table.”
“Of course.” Conall stood immediately and held out his hand to Cait. “I have been negligent in not introducing him to my sister.”
&nb
sp; Cait’s eyes widened, but she took her brother’s hand. Godfrid found it amusing that she could disguise herself as a slave for three weeks, but the thought of standing in front of a full hall and being introduced to the leading men of Dublin had her in a panic.
Conall had spent a lifetime in royal courts, however, and knew just how to behave and what to say. “King Ottar, Queen Helga, may I present to you my sister, Caitriona, newly arrived from Leinster.”
Ottar’s usual expression was something of a glare, but at Cait’s approach, he produced a wide smile. “Welcome to Dublin, my dear. Your beauty is a true adornment to my hall.”
Helga smiled too and said in a voice nearly as deep as her husband’s, “So pleased to have you with us.” It was clear a moment later, however, that her smile was a mask, because she directed a look at Cait that, had it been made of metal, would have pierced her heart.
Cait pretended not to see it and curtseyed deeply. “My lord. My lady.”
Ottar’s expression had turned grossly covetous, and Godfrid had to resist his urge to leap to his feet. Fortunately, the short meeting was all that was required, and the pair returned to their seats.
As she resettled herself beside Godfrid, Cait said, “Maybe I should find my headscarf again.”
“You absolutely should not,” Conall said. “We don’t want anyone connecting you to Rikard’s slave.”
“Only Finn and Sanne know, and they aren’t going to tell anyone.” Though at Conall’s arched eyebrow, she didn’t argue further.
Still, in a moment of clarity, Godfrid realized that Cait was actually made uncomfortable by the attention. Many women would have preened and paraded before the open stares, but she was hunched over the table, for all intents and purposes hiding from the prying eyes behind Godfrid’s bulk.
He leaned closer to her and whispered, “You can look up now. Nobody is staring.”
Then Ottar bellowed his name from the high table, as if Godfrid was an old drinking friend instead of a rival prince and was sitting a hundred feet away instead of ten. “Godfrid! Get up here!”
The Viking Prince Page 16