Oathbreaker (The King's Hounds series)

by Martin Jensen

  We asked him where we could find the visiting monks, and he pointed diagonally across the hall. I was about to close Wulfgar’s door, but Winston stopped me so he could ask Wulfgar who’d summoned him to the scene of the crime earlier.

  “Alwyn came in here looking for you two,” Wulfgar said. “When he told me what had happened, I figured I’d better go, too.”

  A movement from one of the other beds in the room caught my eye. Someone was in the bed, his broad rib cage rising and falling. I was surprised that a common spearman had been allowed to stay in bed so late, until I recognized the man, who was lying with his hands folded behind his head, staring straight up at the ceiling.

  “Ulf is sleeping in here?” I asked incredulously.

  Wulfgar nodded and replied, “Simon gave the order that he could stay here instead of joining the throng outside the palisade.”

  “Simon said that?” Winston asked, sounding surprised. “Why would he care about a disabled soldier?”

  “Now that I couldn’t tell you,” Wulfgar said with a yawn, and scratched his crotch. “But he said that Ulf’s actions during the attack on our way here ought to be rewarded.”

  Ulf seemed to be enjoying his reward; he gave us a satisfied look before looking back up at the ceiling beams.

  “Enjoy your sleep,” Winston said with a friendly nod. He knew how rare it was for a soldier to get to rest during the day.

  “Well, I’d better get up,” Wulfgar said shaking his head. “My crazy spearmen took advantage of being relieved from watch duty last night and drank until they were falling-down drunk. I had to go wake them all up when I got back from the church this morning.” He laughed wryly. “Which was not at all to their liking; apparently they didn’t think sleeping all night was enough. Now I’ve got to go check and make sure they’re not sneaking in a nap behind the corner of some building.”

  We found the two Benedictines in their chamber. The prior sat on his bed with a psalter in his hands. Simon also sat, bent over with hands folded, as if we’d caught him deep in prayer.

  “And now I would like an explanation,” Edmund said, setting down his book and standing up.

  “An explanation, Edmund?” Winston reached out and picked up the book. He studied the illumination on the page it was open to with his eyebrows raised. Then he smirked and handed it back to the astonished prior, who practically threw it on the bed.

  “An explanation for the way I’m being ordered around,” Edmund cried, his voice crackling with indignation.

  Simon still sat in the same position as before, but I thought his eyes furtively checked on us, whereas before they had been firmly fixed on his folded hands.

  “Prior Edmund,” Winston said with an indulgent sigh. “A man has been murdered. Brutally slain in the most sacred place in the church, in front of the altar—”

  He didn’t get any further.

  “This is supposed to come as news to me?” Edmund spat. “Was I not there? Did I not see it with my own eyes?”

  “You found the body, yes,” Winston said.

  I could see Winston restraining himself, trying not to let Edmund get to him. Whereas earlier we had needed to get rid of the monks so we could work in peace, now that it was time to question them, we needed to create as collegial a mood as possible.

  “You were the first person to see the awful deed committed last night. Believe me, Prior, I didn’t mean to offend you, but it was important for me to work in peace.”

  Edmund bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment of what he took to be an apology. I thought to myself that it was a good thing that though he had a short fuse, he was just as easily placated, happy as long as he felt you pet him with the fur and not against it, like a cat.

  “Well,” Edmund said officiously, “now that you’ve had your peace and quiet, I’d like to know what you’ve learned thus far.”

  “Then I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you again,” Winston said and gave him an almost sad look.

  “So you don’t know anything yet?”

  “Oh yes. But permit me to keep it to myself for a while longer.”

  Edmund may have calmed down quickly, but his rage obviously lurked beneath the surface the whole time, like someone who’s not accustomed to not getting his way. “You do not have permission for that.”

  “Nor do I need it.” It was time to fight fire with fire. Winston’s voice was aggressive as he continued: “I’m here to talk to your subprior. What’s up to you now is whether I will do that in your presence or if I need to ask you to leave first.”

  Edmund’s ruddy face turned the red of a midsummer bonfire, but as Winston coolly looked on, he remained silent.

  “Good,” Winston said, no trace of agitation in his voice or face. “Now, Simon.”

  For the first time since we’d walked into the small room, Simon looked directly at us. His eyes contained what I took to be fear.

  And then Winston surprised not just the monks, but me as well, by asking: “When did you recognize Godfrid?”

  Simon’s fear immediately gave way to confusion.

  “Recognize?”

  “And how about you?” Winston asked Prior Edmund.

  “What is this?” Edmund shook his head. “Neither Simon nor I had seen this Godfrid before yesterday.”

  “You hadn’t?” Winston said, and then let his question linger while he stood calmly waiting.

  My eyes flitted back and forth between the two monks, and I was willing to swear that they had no idea what Winston was talking about. I saw Winston eventually draw the same conclusion. He shrugged and then gave me a look that basically said, Ah well, it was worth a try.

  “Good,” he said, like a man who’d just said good morning and was now ready to get down to important matters. “Tell me about last night.”

  “Last night?” Simon repeated uncertainly.

  Winston nodded in response. “Did you two sleep in here alone?”

  “Abbot Turold is a headstrong old man, but he knows what he owes his superiors,” Edmund said, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction, answering the question that had been meant for Simon. He didn’t seem to have any idea what Winston was getting at.

  “Which means that you could come and go as you pleased,” Winston continued. Simon saw Winston’s aim with the line of questioning. “But I only left once,” he said, his voice squeaking.

  “Tell me about it. No,” Winston’s hand shot up, practically hitting the end of Edmund’s nose. “Let Simon do it. Thank you.”

  “Edmund asked me to go to the church and pray Matins.” It was hard to hear his words. “So I did.”

  Winston nodded and asked, “And Edmund?”

  “Edmund?”

  “Where was he?”

  Edmund couldn’t contain himself any longer. “Here! I—”

  But Winston had had enough.

  “Be quiet or leave! I would like to hear what Brother Simon has to say.”

  Edmund blinked, taken aback at the anger in Winston’s voice, but didn’t say anything else.

  “Well?” Winston prompted.

  “Edmund was sleeping when I left.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  Edmund’s face flamed red again, but a look from Winston stifled his words.

  “Yes,” Simon said, smiling reluctantly. “He was snoring.”

  “Did you see anyone on your way to the church?”

  “No,” Simon’s eyes wandered, which Winston and I both noticed. Our silence encouraged him to continue: “But it was dark.”

  I blurted out an aha! just as Winston said, “So pretty much anyone could have been sneaking around out there.” He seemed astonished that I hadn’t kept my outburst to myself.

  I thought about calling Simon out on his lie. The moon had been up when I went outside to pee, but I decided to let Simon keep going. If he wanted to lie to us, why not let him really lay it on thick. Winston continued: “And then you got to the church.”

  “There were candles
on the altar,” Simon continued eagerly. It was as if the more he told us, the more his fear abated. “So I had no trouble finding my way to it.”

  “And Godfrid was kneeling there?” Winston asked.

  Simon shook his head and said, “No.”

  “No?” Winston asked. I shared his surprise.

  “He was lying on the floor,” Simon said.

  “You mean to say…” Winston was furious. “You said your prayers with a dead man lying there and didn’t go sound the alarm?”

  “No, no,” Simon said, crossing himself. “He was asleep.”

  “Asleep? And you’re sure of that? Maybe he was snoring, too?” Winston sneered.

  “Yes,” Simon said, nodding. “He was lying on his back with his hands folded over his stomach, snoring loudly.”

  So much for the nobleman monk’s obedience.

  “And you didn’t wake him up?” Winston asked.

  “I thought…” Simon paused.

  “That you would just start arguing again, so you began your prayers instead,” Winston surmised, and then turned abruptly to Edmund. “Were you awake when Simon returned?”

  “No.” Edmund’s answer was short, perhaps to help keep his temper in check.

  “Hmm,” Winston said, lost in thought.

  “Do you believe me?” There was a fearful plea in Simon’s voice.

  “Shall we say that the way things stand, I do not currently have any reason not to believe you?” Winston replied.

  That remark did not make Simon look any more relieved. Winston turned and gave me a look of encouragement.

  “It was dark, you said.” I made my voice sound casual.

  A nod.

  “But when I went outside to pee, the moon was up. And that couldn’t have been very long before it was time for Matins.”

  Simon’s eyes widened. I saw that Edmund was about to open his mouth, so I ordered him to wait for a moment, an order he followed.

  “Uh, I was wrong,” Simon drew the words out, the way a person does if he’s thinking while he’s talking. “I couldn’t see anything because I had my hood up around my head. I was cold.”

  I remembered that I had been shivering when I got back under the covers, and nodded.

  “Maybe you should stop and think before you answer from now on,” I said.

  The look on his face showed that he understood what I meant.

  Chapter 16

  And what about Ulf?” I asked.

  Winston raised his index finger slightly; he wanted to take over the conversation.

  The monks looked at each other in confusion.

  “Why all this charitable consideration for him?” Winston asked, staring straight at Simon, who squirmed under the attention, but still didn’t seem to grasp Winston’s angle.

  Maybe Edmund felt he’d been kept out of the conversation long enough. He asked who in the world Ulf was.

  “Simon knows,” Winston said, his eyes still on Simon.

  “I don’t know anyone by that name,” Simon said, sounding depressed.

  That fit with what Wulfgar had told me that first evening. Unlike his abbot or his prior, Simon felt that the monastery ought to care for the poor and the sick. But he was also a powerful man in his own right. Though his conscience had required him to care for the poor, mute soldier, why should he care about the man’s name?

  Winston was obviously in agreement, because he explained who he was talking about.

  “The tongueless soldier?” Simon’s eyes widened. “His name is Ulf?”

  Winston clearly wanted to make some biting remark about how the least you could do was ask a man his name, but the obstreperous spark in Winston’s eye died away again; in this case, there really was no point. Instead he just nodded.

  “I had no idea,” Simon assured us.

  “But you thought he deserved to sleep in a proper bed instead of out on the village green like the other people following your procession.”

  “Of course,” Simon said, sounding surprised that anyone would even question this. “He earned it from his contribution the other day.”

  That fit with what Wulfgar had said earlier as well. And yet there was still something that didn’t fit. I racked my mind, trying to put my finger on it, while Winston glanced at Edmund out of the corner of his eye. Then he thanked Simon for his patience and headed for the door.

  As I followed Winston, it hit me: “But why shouldn’t Ulf have had a proper bed to sleep in the night before that, when we were staying at the fortification in Towcester?”

  “He should have,” Simon responded, annoyed. “I found him a spot all the way at the back of the hall, but he couldn’t be bothered to sleep there. Instead he plugged his nose, turned his head, and just walked away.”

  Simon looked as if he wanted to say “without saying a word,” but suddenly caught himself. I smiled to myself. Hadn’t I, too, been glad not to sleep in that stuffy hall?

  The sun had gained strength outside now that the morning was more than half-over. Things were quiet. Apparently the monks here didn’t idle away their time lounging around out on the grass. Only a group of spearmen were visible, up to the left of the church. They had to be Edmund’s, because I recognized Wulfgar, who—with his hands on his back and his chin out—drilled the men in training exercises meant to ensure that the spearmen would be ready to fall in line, lock their shield arms, and form a wall against the enemy.

  However, the exercises looked somewhat laughable: the men were doing them without their spears, which they’d been forced to hand over when they entered the monastery. So the various lunges, turns, and other carefully trained skills almost made them look like they were working on some type of peculiar dance.

  Winston took a few steps and then stopped with his head cocked, listening.

  I tilted my own head back and gazed up at the blue sky, in which a few clouds drifted lazily by. We heard sounds from the village outside the palisade. A horse nickered. The sound blended with the bleating of sheep and the yells of men herding cattle, judging from the mooing that was increasingly drowning out the other sounds. Over all this, we heard hammer blows from the smithy and the distant barking of a dog.

  In a flash I was standing back home on my father’s estate. It was as if the intervening years hadn’t passed or brought my father’s and brother’s deaths, as if I hadn’t been thrown off my rightfully inherited estate. Even the soil smelled like back home.

  I shook off my reminiscences and looked over at Winston, who remained still. Finally he turned to me and asked, “Did you hear hoofbeats?”

  I shook my head. I hadn’t expected Ælfgar to be back so soon either. Whether he had gone out riding to exercise his horse, as he’d said, or with some errand in mind, he apparently intended to show us that although he’d asked us to investigate the murder, he was still a thane and would assert his right to come and go as he pleased.

  Ah well, he wasn’t the first nobleman who’d pissed on us. All the same, if his fingers had swum too deep in monk’s blood, he could be sure Winston would find him out, even if he were the king himself.

  “We need to talk this through,” Winston said, rolling his shoulders to loosen his muscles.

  I didn’t agree.

  “There’s something I want to do first,” I said.

  Winston raised an eyebrow.

  “The palisade,” I explained. “Are we so sure that no one came in from outside it last night?”

  I saw the doubt in his eyes, but he eventually nodded his agreement.

  “Might as well make sure. I’ll go have a chat with the guards while you check it out.”

  He strode off purposefully, and I saw the guards by the gate straighten up when they realized he was headed for them.

  I looked from the guards to the right and then to the left for as far as I could follow the palisade. It was close to twice the height of a man, and I didn’t see any lower sections where the poles had been shortened or collapsed. Grass grew along the bottom of it, but e
ven from this distance it was clear that there weren’t any holes in the stakewall.

  I turned around and walked behind the monks’ hall. The building was far enough from the palisade that no one could jump off its roof and make it over the stakes, a precaution—I thought with a snort—which would hardly prevent monks who regretted their vows from daring to make a run for it. On closer thought, though, that would be rather dumb, since they could walk through the gate every day to work in the hospital out in the village. So the setback was probably intended to make it hard for attackers to throw a torch over the palisade and set fire to the building.

  I looked at the guesthouse, the back end of which stuck out behind the hall, and saw that it was set back the same distance from the palisade. I didn’t find the slightest sign of weakness in the palisade, and I made it all the way behind the church before I encountered a place where it had been penetrated.

  The opening was not created by time or rot working away at the oak poles. Rather, I found a door that was scarcely tall enough for a man, and somewhat narrower than usual for that type of opening. A wooden crossbar rested in two solid iron supports on either side of it.

  I grabbed the crossbar, which was almost immovable, leaned over, and studied the grass in front of the door closely, without finding the slightest trace that it had been stepped on recently. I moved on and continued my inspection all the way back around the church until I reached a spot where I had a clear view down to the gate again. I saw Winston, still engaged in a relaxed conversation with the guards.

  I turned around to go back to the little door and spotted something odd. Around the apse of the church, a stone wall came up to about the height of my knee, with some sort of platform on top. I walked closer to it and stood for a bit, wondering what it was. Then I noticed a little window in the low stone wall on either side of the apse.

  Now, I’m certainly not the most loyal churchgoer. I have a hard time standing still during the priests’ monotonous masses. But I had kept the promise I made to my father’s priest back home to take communion once a year. I had seen a fair number of churches by now, but never one with an addition like this. I followed it around from right to left and then back again to make sure there wasn’t any type of door in it, which there wasn’t. Only the two windows interrupted the wall, and they were both barred with a solid iron cross, which didn’t budge when I grabbed hold and pulled.