Though Cait wasn’t wrong that he liked the shadows, today it was more that he was hiding in plain sight. In fact, he felt something like a ghost because he knew many of the men he passed—but they no longer knew him, and most ducked their heads and looked at the ground rather than into his face. He was the ambassador from the Kingdom of Leinster now, not Fergus the sailor. With his thick Ulster accent and crude sense of humor, Fergus had been amusing, and he wondered if his friends and acquaintances outside of the crew of his boat would be angry at him to learn that he’d deceived them for three weeks. Conall had been living this way for years, and he’d learned it was usually better if they never found out.
Finn’s boat was docked towards the far end of the dozen or so boats moored along the Dublin dockside. These were seafaring vessels, much larger than the river going boats that sailed the Liffey or stuck to the coastlines of Ireland and could easily be drawn up on a muddy bank. The Dublin Danes had modified the war boats, by which they’d terrorized the coasts of every kingdom with a shoreline for nearly four centuries. Though still sleek with a relatively shallow draft, the vessels built now were more suited to holding cargo than fighting.
As before, instead of approaching one of Finn’s crew directly, he sauntered over to an adjacent boat and spoke to a seaman loading packages of foodstuffs into the hull. He also noted that the Welsh ship from two days ago was gone. “What is your name, and whom do you serve?”
The man glanced at him, and then did a double-take as he realized he was talking to a nobleman. He stopped what he was doing and gave Conall his full attention. “I am Ivar, my lord. I serve Harald Magnusson. We sail for Waterford with the tide and from there on to Galway.”
Conall didn’t actually care what the man’s name was, but he’d learned that men were more forthcoming when one addressed them personally. “Ivar, how long have you been docked here?”
“Three days. We would have left earlier, but Harald wanted to attend Merchant Rikard’s funeral.”
“So you were here when Finn Rikardson’s boat docked?”
The man’s lip curled at the mention of Finn’s name, but he answered civilly enough. “Yes, my lord.”
“You don’t like him?”
Ivar waggled his head in the Danish way of qualifying a statement. “He was a spoiled man-child last I saw him. I hear he’s grown up. A close encounter with death has a way of doing that to a man.”
“I hear the same.” Conall paused. “When was this exactly?”
“Two mornings ago.”
Conall deflated slightly. It was the same story he’d heard three times now. It was silly of him to keep going over the same ground, because of all the things that could be verified, when the boat docked was the easiest.
After thanking the man, Conall moved to resume his stroll down the dockside, but he hadn’t gone more than two steps away from the boat when Ivar called him back. “Finn wasn’t on the boat when it docked, my lord, if that was your underlying question.”
Conall swung back, startled at the man’s perception. “Wasn’t he? How do you know?”
Ivar smiled to have Conall gazing at him intently. “Because, my lord, as the boat docked, he came out of the shadows and boarded it. It was the dark before the dawn, which comes early enough this time of year.”
“How did you come to see this?”
“I was on watch.”
Conall was impressed that Ivar’s captain had kept a man on watch even when docked in port with no cargo. “I would appreciate it if you said nothing about this to anyone.”
The corner of the man’s mouth quirked. “Perhaps our Finn hasn’t changed as much as all that?”
“We’ll see.” Conall put a finger to his lips to emphasize his point.
Ivar grinned. “As you wish, my lord.”
Conall turned back to the dockside gate, his heart beating a little faster in anticipation of what needed to happen next. Finn had lied. Not pressing him on his alibi had seemed a kindness at the time, seeing as how he’d just lost his father. But it was a shameful oversight. His only consolation was that, just like Gareth had taught him, he had continued to ask questions even when he thought he knew the answers.
Chapter Twenty-four
Day Three
Caitriona
If anything, this walk on Godfrid’s arm today sparked more astonished looks and curiosity than the one they’d taken to Arno’s house after Rikard’s death. It was well into afternoon by now, and, for many of Dublin’s women in particular, their daily chores were over. They’d fed their families their afternoon meal, and now they had a few moments to lounge on their front stoops and gossip. She and Godfrid were going to be the primary topics of conversation, exactly as her brother had predicted. She didn’t know whether she should be impressed or irked by his insight.
“They are admiring your beauty,” Godfrid said.
Cait pulled a sour face.
Godfrid looked down at her. “I noticed yesterday in Ottar’s hall that you don’t like to be thought beautiful, or—” he paused for a moment, real surprise crossing his face, “could it be that you actually don’t think of yourself as beautiful?”
Cait found herself grimacing even more. “When I was married to Niall, my whole day, every day, revolved around what I looked like. He had expected me to devote many hours a day to my appearance. I realize that isn’t so unusual for a noblewoman, but it never suited me.”
Godfrid laughed. “Fate seems to have held a different view.”
Cait wrinkled her nose yet again. She knew herself to be beautiful, and had been young enough at the time of her marriage to appreciate admiring looks, but that experience had made her distrustful of appearances. “Beauty was a mask I put on every day and behind which I hid my unhappiness.”
Godfrid’s expression turned thoughtful. “Is that the real reason you sought out service to King Diarmait as a slave?”
Cait blinked, startled, though by now she should be used to his perceptiveness. “It’s true that I didn’t hate my time as a slave as much as many women would have.” And then she decided to confess further, “Especially at the beginning, I treated it as a lark, to see how fully I could envelop myself in my new identity.”
“Perhaps that was necessary to maintain the deception,” Godfrid said, again speaking thoughtfully. “I imagine for much of your brother’s career he has felt the same way—up until he was beaten, imprisoned, and almost died.”
Cait tsked through her teeth. “Up until.” She shook her head. “He spent the last three weeks as Fergus to ensure what happened to him was not going to happen to me.”
“I should hope not.”
Deirdre had been the one, if anyone, who’d made some headway penetrating Cait’s mask. The thought had Cait steering Godfrid back across the city towards Rikard’s warehouse.
“Where are we going?”
“I must see my friends. Explain what happened to me.”
“That isn’t quite what Conall had in mind.” Godfrid protested. “He would say it is unwise. If Sanne was shocked that a noblewoman could become a slave, how will those who are slaves feel?”
“What if nobody explained my absence? They will be worried. It isn’t fair to just leave and tell them nothing.”
Even though it had been her choice, she still approached the barracks with some trepidation, prompting Godfrid to whisper in her ear, “You don’t have to do this.”
“I do. I really do.”
“I could speak to them or—” he paused as he thought, “—you could become a slave again just long enough to assuage their fears.”
“No.”
Godfrid nodded his understanding. She had known he would appreciate what she needed to do, which was something to marvel at in and of itself, and was the reason she hadn’t fobbed him off with a different excuse. “Then be assured that I will rescue you within the hour. If the meeting is too painful, there’s a time limit on how long it will last.”
“Thank you.” She squeezed h
is hand and stepped across the threshold to find four of Rikard’s female slaves in the kitchen.
Lena, the cook looked up as she entered, instantly abandoning the dough she’d been shaping and coming forward. Her expression was the careful one she plastered on in the presence of nobility. Then looked harder, and her eyes widened. “Caitriona?”
The other women in the room stopped what they were doing, jaws dropping as they stared at her.
“Yes. It is I.”
“I thought you’d taken advantage of Rikard’s death to escape.” Lena approached more closely, looking Cait up and down as she did so. “Others thought you were dead until Tilda said that she saw you at the other end of the alley when Prince Godfrid found Deirdre’s body. I didn’t believe her then, but I see I should have. What is going on?”
“I’m still Caitriona, but I was never really a slave.” She cleared her throat, painfully nervous. These women had welcomed her from the very first, accepting her somewhat superior position as a weaver woman without question or jealousy, and she had repaid them with deception. It had been an oversight on her part that she’d never considered how they would react if they learned the truth. “I am sister to Lord Conall, the ambassador from Leinster.”
Utter silence greeted this statement, and Cait knew she had to apologize. “I am sorry. It was never my intent—”
“To deceive us?” Lena said.
“That was not my—”
“Then what?” Tilda spoke from behind Lena. “Why did you come back?”
Cait bent her head. “I thought you would be worried.”
It was exactly the wrong thing to say, and she knew it the moment the words were out.
“We were worried.” Tilda continued to glare at her. “I guess we shouldn’t have been.”
Cait tried again. “Rikard knew who I was and why I was here. He agreed to my presence because he feared he had a traitor in his midst. King Diarmait and he hoped I could discover what was going on before it ... turned deadly.” She finished with her eyes on her feet.
Total silence greeted this statement too. Cait could feel their continued hostility, though perhaps it was less pronounced than it had been a moment before.
Finally it was Lena, their leader, who spoke. “What is it you want with us, my lady?” She ruled her kitchen with an iron hand, but she wasn’t an angry person by nature.
She had wanted their forgiveness. But as they weren’t going to give her that—and she didn’t deserve it anyway—she decided to come up with a reason for her presence that they would view as valid. So she asked a question. “The night before Deirdre died, did she go to bed as usual?”
Her brow furrowed as she considered the question, Lena gave herself time to think by returning to her dough, kneading and shaping it as she talked. “The curtain was pulled when I went to bed. I didn’t disturb her.”
The others agreed that they’d seen the same, but nobody had checked to see if Deirdre was actually present.
“None of you saw her leave?”
“No,” said Ana, a laundress.
“Do you know why she would be poking around the warehouse when Rikard told nobody to come?”
“You know the answer to that,” Tilda said. “She hated not knowing everything that was going on.”
“Some of the people we talked to speculated that she was with Rikard that night.” Cait cleared her throat and added somewhat delicately. “In bed.”
Lena guffawed. “Not likely. Not for a long time.”
“But they were lovers once?”
“She had a child by him, but he died at birth,” said Iona, one of the older women. She was Welsh, but had been a slave in Dublin almost as long as Deirdre. “As it turned out, shortly thereafter Rikard’s first wife died giving birth to Finn, and Deirdre became his wet nurse. She lived in the big house for years. That’s where she learned to weave so well.”
Cait was stunned. “She never told me.”
“She didn’t like to talk about it, especially once Finn didn’t return.” Lena patted the dough into shape and set it in a bowl. The others had begun moving towards a rack near the door where cloaks and head coverings were hooked. Lena followed. “Now that you’re here, you might as well come with us.”
“Of course,” Cait said. “Where are we going?”
“To visit Deirdre’s grave. We weren’t welcome at the funeral.” Iona’s tone was accusing, as it had every right to be.
But Lena put out a hand to her to shush her. “Lady Caitriona was there for us, weren’t you?”
“I was. I’m sorry I didn’t seek permission for you to attend. It wasn’t that I didn’t think of you. I didn’t know that you couldn’t be there, and I didn’t even learn of the funeral until a quarter of an hour before it happened.”
Tilda snorted. “We are slaves. Our men were rounded up afterwards and spent all day without food or drink at the hands of that sheriff.”
Cait took in a breath. “I’m sorry. I will speak to Finn about what will become of you now that Rikard is gone—”
“Don’t pretend you are troubled by our problems.” Iona strode away towards the back door with Tilda and Ana following.
Lena, however, stayed behind. “Don’t mind Iona. She and Deirdre were close.”
“I understand that, and I can only say again how sorry I am for deceiving you. It was never my intent.”
Lena nodded. “I know it wasn’t. Perhaps next time you’ll look before you leap.”
Cait looked down at her toes. “One can hope.”
Lena patted her forearm. “It isn’t in your nature. I understand that too, and I understand why Deirdre took to you so well.”
Cait looked up. “I really did like her very much. I wish I had thought to check for her before I went to sleep that night.”
“It might not have mattered,” Lena said. “If she wasn’t in her bed, what would you have done? She knew her own mind, did Deirdre, and she did what she liked. Does your brother think she was prying at the warehouse and that is what got her killed?”
“It does seem the most likely scenario.”
“She did have more privileges than the rest of us. Rikard always had a soft spot for her as, of course, did Finn and she for him.”
“I meant what I said about speaking to Finn about your fate,” Cait said. “Slavery is not condoned by the Church. I know Bishop Gregory would like to tell his superiors in Canterbury that there are no more slaves in Dublin. Perhaps Finn would be amenable to a different arrangement.”
“You think he might pay us for our work?” Lena scoffed. “That will be the day.”
“It will be. Someday.” Cait had a sudden thought to speak to Bishop Gregory and ask him to personally intervene on the slaves’ behalf with Finn. She was the sister of Leinster’s ambassador. He might listen.
The cook looked at her sadly. “On my deathbed, my dear. It is something for which a slave can never hope, else it becomes impossible to find happiness anywhere. That is why Tilda and Iona continue to suffer.”
Cait gave her a small smile. “I shouldn’t come with you to Deirdre’s grave, after all, should I?”
Lena patted her again. “Best not. Find your young prince and forget about us. Your life lies elsewhere now.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Day Three
Godfrid
Rather than loiter around the warehouse while Cait spoke with Rikard’s slave women, Godfrid set off on an aimless circuit of the city. He wanted time to think, to take out each piece of the puzzle that was this investigation and examine them. Church bells tolled immediately after he left, and then again, marking the quarter hours. He’d been wending his way west and then, without conscious intent, he fetched up at the western gatehouse.
Holm claimed to have questioned the guards at all the gatehouses about the comings and goings during the night of Rikard’s death. Godfrid believed he had done so. At the same time, he didn’t necessarily trust that Holm had done as thorough a job as he could have. Wh
ile Conall had spoken to guards at the dock gate, perhaps more could be done here, even at this late date.
As Godfrid approached the western gateway, the guard on duty straightened to full attention. “My lord.”
“Hello, Markus.” Godfrid had made it his business over the years to know the names of every guardsman in Dublin, but Markus was more than a simple guard or even a brief acquaintance, for that matter. He’d sailed to Anglesey during the debacle with Prince Cadwaladr five years ago. “How is it that you pulled this duty today?”
“Sheriff Holm has allowed us to leave the gates open so people can once again enter and leave freely, but he still wanted experienced men on duty, ones who know what to do if danger comes calling.”
“That was good thinking.” Godfrid put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Do you have an accounting yourself of who came in and out of this gate the night Rikard died?”
“I wasn’t here, you understand? But after Merchant Rikard died, I took it upon myself to question my fellows. Nobody remembers anything unusual, I’m sorry to say. But then, a dozen people at least come in and out of this gate every hour, day and night.”
“Surely not after midnight?” Godfrid said. “It isn’t so long ago that we were at war with Brega.”
“You’d be surprised,” Markus said. “People have short memories. I think they want to forget ... Anyway, several instances stood out in particular: a courting couple, caught out late by a rainstorm; Matthias the drunk, who’d slept the day away in a field; and before dawn, a young man with a lame horse, who said his name was Niklas. The guard didn’t know him, but he was clearly wealthy and Danish. No Irishmen arrived after the gates were closed. They would know better. If strangers entered the city, it was earlier in the day or by a different gate.”
Godfrid harrumphed, not pleased to hear it. Then he had a thought. “What about departing?”
Markus looked rueful. “Sheriff Holm came inquiring on that matter as well. He was told that an Irishman did leave just before dawn. But he was a servant, not a merchant or an ambassador from any kingdom in Ireland. Just a scrawny lad—though admittedly on a fine horse. He didn’t stop to talk, and the gatekeeper had no reason to detain him. Dublin is a free city, as you know. People come and go as they please as long as there’s no trouble.” His expression turned rueful. “Do you think he was one of the killers?”
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