The Viking Prince

by Sarah Woodbury

  Holm had arrived and stood before the king, his hands clasped behind his back, looking more than a little awkward. Unlike Cait, he was one who, before Rikard’s murder, might have lapped up the attention. What a difference a day made.

  “My turn.” Ignoring Cait’s subversive eyeroll, Godfrid rose to his feet and strode three paces to reach the high table.

  “You should have come to me last night, Godfrid,” Ottar said, almost petulantly. “Holm, here, has been telling me about the great progress you’ve been making.”

  As Godfrid hadn’t accomplished anything so far today, and it was already past noon, this was surely a gross overstatement. But Godfrid didn’t deny Ottar’s words and merely said, “I’d be pleased to know what Holm has told you.”

  At a nod from Ottar, Holm cleared his throat. “I have given the king a full summary of what we discovered yesterday. It is clear now that Rikard was murdered by thieves who came to his warehouse seeking to enrich themselves. Deirdre happened upon the thieves, and rather than run away, they killed her. I spoke with all of the merchants and citizens within hailing distance of the warehouse, along with all of the guards at the three city gates. Nobody suspicious went in or out, and all these events occurred without witnesses.”

  Godfrid had wanted to speak to the guards at the gates himself, but he had left the task to Holm because to do otherwise would usurp his role. He couldn’t really believe nobody had seen anything, but now wasn’t the time to say so. He also found it interesting that Holm had decided they were looking for multiple culprits, something for which, as far as Godfrid knew, they had no evidence.

  “Do you have anything further to add, Prince Godfrid?” Ottar said.

  “I examined both bodies, my lord. Rikard’s cause of death is unclear at this time. It is possible he was poisoned, though with the body in the ground, that can no longer be determined.” He thought he managed to keep most of the bitterness out of his voice. “In turn, Deirdre was strangled. Given that her body was dumped in an alley, we believe the murderer realized he couldn’t get her out of the city to dispose of her in a more hidden spot like the river.”

  “In the aftermath of Rikard’s death, I ordered the guards to stop anyone leaving the city,” Holm added. “Strangers were to be detained until they were identified.”

  Godfrid looked at the sheriff. “Has anyone been detained?”

  “No.” Holm frowned.

  Ottar gazed from Godfrid to Holm. “Are you saying the man who murdered Rikard and Deirdre is still in Dublin?”

  “He may well be.” Godfrid spoke lightly, striving still not to undermine Holm. Godfrid had spent the last five years hiding his true thoughts as a matter of course, so it wasn’t hard. “If the guards at the gates saw nothing suspicious, that means either the culprit is from Dublin or, if he was foreign, he is still here.”

  “It seems to me that you are looking at this entirely wrong,” Ottar said, in something of a haughty manner. “Rikard must have had a traitor in his midst, one who until now has not been identified. Isn’t it true that most murders are committed by someone known to the victim?”

  “Y-yes. I have heard that.” Out of the corner of his eye, Godfrid glanced at Holm, who wore a stunned expression. “But we have no evidence that would point to one of his slaves, my lord. Only Deirdre was unaccounted for. The rest were locked in their barracks for the night.”

  “So they say.” Ottar shifted in his chair, excited by his idea. “Rather than a house-to-house search, which likely would result in nothing but offended housewives, you must round up all of Rikard’s male slaves for questioning.” He directed a beady eye at Holm. “This crime was committed by a man, yes?”

  “Almost certainly, my lord,” Holm said. “No woman would have been strong enough to move a body.”

  Ottar smiled with satisfaction. “With enough pressure, one of them is sure to talk.”

  “I’ve already questioned all of them, my lord. They could tell me nothing.”

  “Then you didn’t apply enough pressure, did you?”

  Holm blinked and then bowed. “A failure I will remedy, my lord.”

  Now Ottar glared at Godfrid. “You and Holm will work together on this. I see you have already mended your relationship with Ambassador Conall as I instructed.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Godfrid didn’t see how he could argue with the king in the middle of Rikard’s funeral feast. This new direction for the investigation could be an attempt to calm Dublin’s citizens. Far better to think the murderer was a slave than a worthy citizen of Dublin. But Godfrid couldn’t help thinking that his first instinct was correct and Ottar wanted to deflect them from the notion that the culprit or culprits had come from outside the city. “Have you confirmed Rikard’s son, Finn, in his inheritance?”

  “I have. It isn’t every day a son of Dublin returns from the grave. It is just too bad that it happened on the day of his father’s death.”

  Sturla then stepped forward, his hand out, and Holm and Godfrid understood they were dismissed.

  “I will see that the slaves are brought to the west gatehouse,” Holm said to Godfrid in an undertone. “You will come?”

  “Of course,” Godfrid said, deciding suddenly that this course might actually be a good thing. Cait had been installed in Rikard’s house to discover a traitor, and intentionally or not, Ottar had latched upon the same idea. Just because Ottar came to his conclusion for the wrong reasons didn’t mean it was a bad idea to question all of Rikard’s servants again. At a minimum, it could lull the true killer into a false sense of security. “Don’t forget to inform Finn. As they are his property, he has the right to be present when they are questioned.”

  Holm grunted his assent and set off towards the door, while Godfrid returned to the table where Cait and Conall waited.

  Conall’s first thought was the same as Godfrid’s had been. “He’s trying to deflect you.”

  “I have no doubt of that,” Godfrid said. “Unfortunately, it means I can’t pursue other inquiries today. He gave me a direct order.”

  “I fear the longer we delay, the more likely the murderer will get away with it,” Conall said. “The trail goes cold, as Gareth says.”

  “And yet, if the murderer is still in Dublin, he will be feeling safe,” Cait said. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

  Conall shook his head. “All he has to do is wait. The citizens will grow impatient with the increased security and will start to complain. The gates will be open tomorrow, mark my words.”

  “Godfrid, you aren’t going to get anything from Rikard’s servants, you know. No slave will betray another, no matter how serious the crime.” Cait canted her head. “Maybe I could discover more if I could be a slave again.”

  “No!” Both men were adamant in their refusal. Then Conall added, “You can’t go back.”

  “You did. You were Fergus yesterday.”

  “But not at the dock. And maybe not ever again in Dublin.”

  Cait had her chin in her hand. “Whatever the outward reason—lust, greed, jealousy, revenge—a man kills because he wants something. What we need to do is figure out who has the most to gain from Rikard’s death.”

  “Thorfin,” Conall said.

  “Ottar,” Godfrid said.

  “Sanne,” Cait added.

  They laughed.

  Conall smirked. “Should I say it or do you want to?”

  “Say what?” Godfrid said.

  “I wish Gareth and Gwen were here.”

  * * * * *

  Eight hours later, Godfrid wearily returned to his house. Looking back, he blamed his inattention on how wasted the day had been. As Cait had said, the slaves and servants were never going to tell him anything.

  Because he’d been gone all day, he’d given his steward and servants the afternoon and evening off, and thus he didn’t think anything of not being greeted at the door. He did notice that his hearth fire had gone out. Even with an afternoon to herself, the housekeeper would have made certain
that didn’t happen.

  He was staring at the fire, only just beginning to worry that something was wrong, when he felt, more than saw, a shadow move behind him. It gave him enough of a warning for him to shift his weight, such that the heavy object swinging towards him hit his shoulder first instead of his head, which took only a glancing blow. It was still enough of a wallop to drop him to the floor, but he remained conscious. Meanwhile, his attacker escaped through the open front door into the darkness of the street.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Day Two

  Caitriona

  Cait fell to her knees beside Godfrid, who was sitting on the floor of his house with his back against the wall and his knees up. “Are you all right?”

  “I will be,” he said, though he groaned as he spoke.

  Conall stood behind Godfrid with his arms folded across this chest, looking just about as severe as Cait had ever seen him. “Can you tell us what happened?”

  “Somebody hit me.” Godfrid looked up at Conall. “That is entirely what I know about my situation. Honestly, I’m more embarrassed than hurt.”

  Cait reached for his hand. “Jon says that you gave everyone the evening off because you wouldn’t be in.”

  “I did.” Godfrid’s expression was more than a little bleary. “Is that how you’re here? Jon went to find you?”

  “He’s patrolling the house now—too little too late.” Cait was trying not to be irate on Godfrid’s behalf. “Why wasn’t he with you?”

  “This isn’t his fault. He walked me to my doorstep, and I told him to go home. I foolishly assumed I would be safe on my own threshold.”

  “Rikard wasn’t,” Conall said softly. He bent over to examine the four-foot-long piece of wood Godfrid’s assailant had dropped. It was a good two inches thick too. Cait’s own head hurt just thinking about being hit with it.

  Godfrid put a hand on Cait’s shoulder while at the same time reaching for Conall’s hand. “Help me up.”

  Cait didn’t think protesting would do any good, so she allowed Godfrid to use her as a crutch to get to his feet. She pursed her lips as she studied the side of his head. “The skin isn’t broken.”

  Godfrid rolled his shoulders. “It hurts, but I’m starting to feel better already. I didn’t lose consciousness. He surprised me more than anything.”

  “Who was he?” Cait said, “And what was he doing in your house?”

  “That’s the question of the hour, isn’t it?” Godfrid paced forward, somewhat more slowly than usual, towards the central hearth. “The fire is out.” He crouched down and ran his fingers through the ashes. “I think someone put out the fire to look under the brazier.”

  “Why would anyone do that?” Cait asked.

  Conall answered for Godfrid. “It’s an old Viking trick to hide valuables in an iron chest underneath the hearth. It is literally the last place anyone would look—or so it was once thought.”

  “Only a fool would hide anything there now.” Godfrid straightened again, and Cait moved to his side to help him with an arm around his waist. He put his arm across her shoulders, swaying a bit, before he steadied. “The air moves as if a stranger has been here.” It was a very Irish thing to say.

  “Can you tell if anything else has been moved or taken?” she asked.

  “I’ll know in a moment.” He moved with her the full length of the room and back. At one point, she glanced up and saw his eyes flicking continually up and down and from side to side, taking in the entire space. “He touched everything.” Godfrid actually shivered, again very much like an Irishman. “I feel unclean.”

  “Someone was looking for something,” Conall said. “The question remains—did he find it?”

  Godfrid and Cait returned to where Conall remained standing, and the three of them exchanged a long look.

  “We’re all thinking the same thing, of course,” Cait said. “This is King Ottar’s doing. He fears we found something in Rikard’s warehouse ... like Brodar’s death warrant?”

  Godfrid pursed his lips as he thought. “It was my hope that he wouldn’t yet know that it hadn’t reached its intended recipient.”

  “That’s what Sturla was doing,” Conall said heavily.

  Cait nodded. “I highly doubt that he came to the warehouse because he wanted to discuss a contract with Finn. While he didn’t appear to know about the vault, we know for certain that he knew about the warrant, because he wrote it.”

  “I’ve thought from the beginning that Sturla knows more about Rikard’s death than he’s telling,” Godfrid said. “He was just a little too commanding yesterday morning in the warehouse.”

  Conall grimaced as he studied the assailant’s weapon, prompting Cait to reach up and gently touch the spot behind his ear where a lump had formed. “You realize that you cannot tell anyone about what happened,” she said.

  “I know it.” Godfrid’s head had been bowed, but now he looked up at Conall. “Why search my house and not yours?”

  “He could have tried there first, but my servants didn’t get the day off.” Conall shrugged. “Besides, Ottar considers me an ally, remember? And he believes you and I hate each other. He might even think that if I’d found the warrant, I wouldn’t have objected and might even have helped.”

  Cait’s eyes widened slightly as she looked into Godfrid’s face. “And since the two of you hate each other, the only logical place to hide the death warrant—or whatever else you might have discovered that you might not choose to share with Ottar—would be in your house. He would have no notion that he really should be looking in Conall’s.”

  Conall’s tone when he spoke next was all satisfaction. “Godfrid, my friend, I believe our little deception has finally paid off.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Day Three

  Godfrid

  “Prince Godfrid! Prince Godfrid!” A pounding on the door of his house roused Godfrid out of a deep sleep.

  Fortunately, his steward was there to answer it. Last night Godfrid had left the shutters near his bed half-closed, and he could see the gray pre-dawn light peeking through the opening. It was very early in the morning. And certainly, after yesterday, it was far earlier than he’d hoped to rise. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed at his face to wake himself. To say his head and shoulder hurt was to woefully understate the case, but he could see well enough—and hear well enough too—so he could be grateful for small blessings.

  The steward was continuing to speak to the man at the door, so Godfrid heaved himself to his feet and went to the railing overlooking the main room of his house. “What is it?”

  His steward looked up at him, but before he could answer, the man at the door, who turned out to be Alf, Holm’s second-in-command, spoke, “Sheriff Holm asks that you come immediately, my lord. Two more bodies have been found, murdered.”

  “Have they been identified?”

  “No, my lord. Nobody recognizes them.”

  Even in a city of nearly four thousand people, everybody knew everyone else, so that meant they’d come from outside Dublin. “Where?”

  Alf visibly swallowed. “In Holm’s own yard, my lord. He is afraid that King Ottar will think he murdered them. Please come!”

  Godfrid pressed his lips together tightly, implying a worried or concerned demeanor—when really the idea that Holm would not only murder two strangers but leave their bodies in his own yard was laughable. Then again, after the debacle of yesterday, if Holm’s intent was to conduct a house-to-house search this morning, hiding the bodies in his own yard would have been a good way to prevent them from being discovered.

  “Who found them?” Godfrid reached for his pants and then his boots and pulled them on.

  “They were buried under a mound of hay in his barn.” Alf spun his hat nervously in his hand. “One of his pigs discovered them.”

  Godfrid started moving a little more quickly. “How long was the pig at the bodies before he was stopped?” It was a known fact that pigs would eat anyt
hing, and if you wanted to get rid of a murder victim, leaving the body where a pig could eat it wasn’t a bad way to do it. Horrifying, but almost smart.

  “A bit, my lord, but they’d been in their pen all night. One sneaked through the rails this morning. We’ve since hauled the bodies into the yard. Their faces are intact. That’s how we know we don’t know them.” He shuddered. “They do smell.”

  “I imagine.” Godfrid grimaced. “Did you send someone to Lord Conall’s house to tell him of this?”

  “No, my lord.” Alf blinked in genuine surprise. “Should I have?”

  The implication was that Conall would be the last person Godfrid would want to see, and Godfrid was happy to let Alf continue to think so. “No. You did the right thing coming to me. Let’s see what’s what first, shall we?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  On the whole, Godfrid wouldn’t have been sorry to have Conall at his side. He certainly hadn’t balked at the idea for the reason Alf thought, but now that Conall had Cait with him, he had to consider what she might do as well. If she knew something was afoot, she would refuse to be left behind. Godfrid could understand, sympathize, and admire her fortitude. That didn’t mean he wanted her to see pig-gnawed bodies.

  Alf was tall and lean—taller than Godfrid actually—and their long strides took them to Holm’s house within a quarter of an hour.

  A white-faced Holm was there to greet him. “Thank you for coming.” His words were fervent, and Godfrid marveled that, in only two days’ time, he had gone from the object of Holm’s derision to his savior.

  “What can you tell me?” They came to a halt five feet from the bodies, which Godfrid had no interest in touching as of yet.

  Holm went through what he knew, with the further explanation that the bodies had been dumped face-down. They’d only been settled onto their backs when they’d been moved from the barn into the yard. As Holm finished his explanation, Godfrid could hear Gareth commenting in his ear, The murderer laid them face-down because he didn’t want to see their faces in death. Likely this murder was not planned.