The King's Hounds (The King's Hounds series Book 1)

by Martin Jensen

  Winston spotted an earwig in his porridge and grimaced. Then he nodded at the girl who had been assigned to serve us and asked her to pour honey over it.

  “You could stay with me,” Winston said, sounding impulsive.

  I looked at him, but he was peering down at his porridge.

  “With you?” I asked.

  He nodded. “It’s not exactly safe to travel on one’s own these days. I mean, you saw that for yourself the other day. You may not be the greatest of soldiers—among either the English or the Danes—but both then and last night you demonstrated your fearlessness. I’m going to be working in Oxford for a month or two, and after that I’ll move on. I could use a man of courage. There has been hardly any law, order, or security in this land since the reign of blessed King Ethelred’s father. And now, with an army of Viking conquerors roaming the land, conditions are unlikely to improve in the foreseeable future.”

  I mulled this over. As a destitute and landless man, I admittedly had little in the way of other options, aside from continuing to live as a thief. Although I was a skilled swordsman, there were thousands of those, all of whom were applying to serve in the king’s army now. And even if I should be accepted into his ranks, I didn’t really have my heart set on that.

  Though Edmund’s very convenient death shortly after the Battle of Assandun had made Cnut ruler of all Britons, there was no hiding the fact that Cnut was merely a boy, victorious perhaps, but objectively speaking, untested both in war and on the throne.

  However, it was true that he had demonstrated kingly mettle last year when he made short work not just of that lout, Eadric the Grasper, but also of other members of the Saxon nobility—even those of royal descent—who might pose a threat to him. And his hasty marriage to Emma of Normandy had further secured his safety.

  By taking a Mercian princess, Ælfgifu, as his consort, Cnut had bound the Mercian nobles to his cause. And by marrying Emma, the widow of Ethelred the Unready, Cnut had gained a powerful ally in her brother Richard, the Duke of Normandy.

  Still, the current peace was by no means secure, and I did not relish the thought of having to fight and die for Cnut—the man who was ultimately to blame for the deaths of both my father and my brother.

  Winston’s offer was definitely worthy of consideration.

  “You’ll pay me?”

  He used his finger to wipe up the remainder of his porridge, sucked it clean, and looked up at me. “I’ll feed you.”

  “I don’t eat enough for that to make sense,” I said. “My food, plus four pennies a month.”

  Winston spat a fly out onto the floor. “And you pay for your own clothes and weapons.”

  I thought for a moment and then nodded.

  “Agreed.” He got up, spit into his palm, and held it out.

  As we shook hands, I wondered if I’d been too quick to agree.

  For the first time since my family had died, I would no longer have to live hand to mouth. I could look forward to eating my fill every day, sleeping under a roof, and, at the end of each month, putting little silver coins into a coin purse, which was the first thing I planned to buy on payday.

  As we approached town, we saw plumes of smoke rising in the distance ahead of us. We were soon crossing the river at the ford that gave Oxford its name.

  The actual ford was plenty wide, but so many travelers were crossing at once that it was mayhem. Some kept starting and stopping as they sought the crossing point that would keep them driest, while others had horses, donkeys, or mules that refused to step into the water at all. And still others were looking for ancient stones along the river’s edge with which to say a prayer or make an offering to the river god, as the river was sacred to those with the old beliefs. And a last batch was looking for the ale stand that some enterprising townswomen would inevitably have set up.

  The crossing didn’t get any easier with troop after troop of soldiers and noblemen demanding the right of way and cutting ahead of everyone else.

  So we had to wait a while—time that I spent shooting Atheling menacing looks and patting my sword hilt, which caused him to bray defiantly back at me. Finally there was a gap, and we were able to cross.

  As we walked into town, I saw that it had recovered from the fire that had razed it ten years earlier. The buildings and farmsteads looked well maintained. The fences around the yards and vegetable gardens were in good repair, there were no holes in the thatched roofs, and I saw no drooping doors or window shutters; the overall condition of the streets and buildings suggested a wealthy town. This impression was reinforced by the new church, which, like its precursor, was dedicated to Saint Frideswide.

  Beyond the church, we spied a green branch over an open door, the mark of an inn. After Winston had tied Atheling to the designated post outside, we ducked through the doorway into a dark tavern filled with three long tables surrounded by low benches.

  Six soldiers were seated at one table. Well-armed and burly, the men wore ring-mail byrnies with gold-hilted weapons and metal bands around their biceps. They had taken their helmets off since they were indoors, but kept them on the table next to their ale. These warriors were always on guard—even when they were drinking.

  Winston glanced at them, mumbled a hello, then turned to me. I nodded to show that I understood what kind of men they were. King Cnut’s personal housecarls accepted only the best warriors—and only those who owned swords with gold-inlaid hilts.

  In front of an opening in the far wall stood two sawhorses with a plank laid on top of them. A woman got up from a stool behind the plank and asked what she could do for us.

  She was not bad looking. A little old for my taste—probably around thirty—but well preserved and not badly dressed, in a linen blouse (which did nothing to hide her ample bosom) and a gray wool skirt dyed with green stripes. Her dark blonde, almost red, hair fell below her shoulders.

  I couldn’t help but give her an appreciative look—despite her age—to which she responded with a sarcastic grin before turning her full attention to Winston, who asked if she had a room available.

  She studied him for a long time, and then looked me up and down. I flashed her my best smile.

  “For how long?” she asked.

  “A month, I should think. At least.” Winston scratched his beard.

  “Paid in advance. Board not included.”

  The room was behind the tavern, off a little hallway. There were four doors along the hallway, which led to the host couple’s room, our chamber, and one other room that they probably also rented out. The last door led out to the alleyway behind the building, the hostess explained.

  Our room was barely big enough to turn around in once we had brought our things in, but the bed was wide enough that we wouldn’t be right on top of each other, and a window opened on to the narrow alleyway in back, so it wouldn’t get too stuffy at night.

  It took a while to haul all of Winston’s things in through the tavern. In addition to everything I’d already seen, which included his various foodstuffs, he also had a lot of small parcels in his possession. There were little clay pots, bark boxes, triangular bags twisted out of worn parchment, neatly tied-up cloth and leather sacks, tins made of thin metal, and a bunch of parchment rolls—in addition to two duffel bags and a few rolls of fine cloth wrapped in canvas.

  As I carried each load in, Winston stacked everything carefully in the room. After we were done, Winston pulled Atheling over to a stable that our hostess had recommended.

  While he was gone, I took a seat in the tavern, which was now empty aside from our hostess, who was washing drinking bowls and tankards in a bucket she kept on a stand in the corner.

  She glanced over at me, but continued her washing. She set the clean dishes up on a board that hung below the ceiling and tossed the water out the doorway. She didn’t come over to the table where I was sitting until she was done.

  “Yes?” She regarded me with almost total indifference.

  “Ale, thanks,” I reque
sted.

  She set a tankard in front of me and held out her hand.

  “Uh … I …” I stammered, but Winston walked in the door just then. “And one for my friend, too.”

  When she set the second tankard on the table I nodded to indicate that Winston would pay.

  The hostess accepted the coins, and Winston shot me an annoyed look, to which I replied, “Food was included. That was the deal.”

  “Hmm.” He wrinkled his brow. “As long as you’re not planning to live on ale.”

  I chuckled at him to put his mind at ease, then smiled at the hostess, who was back on her stool behind the counter. My smile had no effect on her.

  The ale was good—malted and sweet—and we were both thirsty. Winston was soon peering sadly down at the bottom of his empty tankard. He turned to the woman and ordered two more. When she brought them, he held out his hand. “I’m Winston, and this is Halfdan.”

  The woman nodded at him. “I’m Alfilda.”

  “You’re the alewife who runs this place?”

  “Yes. And I’m the owner.”

  So, she was single. A shame she wasn’t a little younger.

  Chapter 6

  Winston asked the hostess to bring another couple of tankards, plus one for herself.

  I could tell from her eyes that Winston shouldn’t assume she was available for the price of a tankard of ale. Although he probably needed a woman, I thought he was moving a bit too fast. Even women who are getting on in years like to be flirted with a bit before being wooed in earnest.

  But perhaps I had misjudged Winston’s motives. When Alfilda returned to the table with our ales and a small cup of mead for herself, Winston didn’t start showing off his tail feathers.

  Instead he glanced around the empty tavern, took a slug of ale, carefully wiped his beard, and leaned over the table. “The town is full of soldiers and noblemen,” he said.

  She seemed surprised. “Of course.”

  “I’m sorry?” Winston looked confused. “Why do you say of course?”

  “The king has convened a meeting of the traditional Saxon witan to meet here along with all his own Danish advisers.”

  “Here in Oxford?”

  Winston looked at me, but I just shook my head. It was news to me, too—although it did explain why Ælfgifu had summoned Winston to Oxford.

  “Where better?” Alfilda said, suddenly looking somber, as though troubled by a bad memory. “Everyone knows Cnut hates Oxford even more than London. London because the city opposed him. Us because of Saint Brice’s day.”

  This time I nodded at Winston. I knew the story, though I had been merely a lad of five when it happened.

  King Ethelred the Unready had truly deserved his reputation for acting on bad advice. That is, unless he’d come up with all his failed policies on his own, as some claimed. But frankly, I simply cannot believe that one man could have been so unwise. I can only think that someone advised him to have all the Danes already living in England massacred on Saint Brice’s day.

  My father had received the order as well, but he just rolled his eyes and ignored it. I mean, what was he going to do? Kill his own wife and son?

  Many people thought the way my father did and simply ignored the king’s command. But many others took the order as a welcome opportunity to do away with any ethnically Danish neighbors whose land they had been coveting.

  In Oxford, the residents wrought a bloodbath at the order of the shire reeve. Oxford’s Danes sought refuge in Saint Frideswide’s Church, but to no avail. The English mob, whipped into a bloodthirsty frenzy, set fire to the church and many—far too many—Danes perished in the flames, King Cnut’s aunt among them. People said that Cnut’s father, Sweyn, swore to both Christ and his older, bloodier gods that his revenge would be terrible.

  Years later, when the two Viking kings, Sweyn and his son Cnut, landed in our kingdom to conquer it, they attacked us with fire and swords, but nowhere were they as vicious as Oxford. They burned the town to the ground, and only after most of its residents were dead did King Sweyn permit the survivors to purchase his mercy.

  Sweyn forced Oxford’s survivors into their church—which the residents had rebuilt in the intervening years and which the Vikings had spared in the attack—and there, on the very site where his sister, Princess Gunhild, had met her death in the massacre, the people of Oxford were forced to prostrate themselves and beg for the king’s mercy.

  My eyes fixed on Alfilda. “Cnut summoned all the Saxon ealdormen, thanes, and senior clergy here for a meeting of the Witenagemot so that the Danes could kill them in revenge for the massacre?” I asked.

  Alfilda shook her head. “No,” she said. “Where have you been?”

  I muttered “here and there,” while Winston informed her that he had been hard at work within the secluded walls of various monasteries and that he’d been out wandering the peaceful roads for several weeks since then. Of course, if you asked me there was some debate about how peaceful those roads had been …

  “So you haven’t heard anything?” Alfilda asked skeptically.

  “Not a damned thing,” I said. Winston frowned sharply at me, probably to signal that I should let him do the talking since he was paying me. I frowned right back at him. Was I not the son of a nobleman?

  Alfilda eyed both of us. Though she pretended otherwise, this innkeeper lady was quick on the uptake. She ignored our frowns and forthrightly explained that King Cnut had summoned simultaneous meetings of the Saxon Witenagemot and the Danish Thing in Oxford in order to broker a peace between the English and the Danish and unify the kingdom.

  “After his victory, Cnut imposed the heregeld on all landowners—an army tax of 72,000 pounds of silver, which doesn’t even include an additional 10,500 pounds he’s demanded from London alone, because of that town’s unmatched hatred of him. Now he’s summoned everyone to Oxford to pay up, because his soldiers want to be paid for conquering England for him. So the nobility and clergy are flooding into Oxford from every corner of the land, with their mules and packhorses practically on their knees from their heavy loads of silver. Once the heregeld has been paid, Cnut will release the hostages he took to ensure that the payments would be made as promised. Only then will the entire kingdom truly be his.”

  “Amazing,” I said, ignoring Winston’s look. “But why hold the meeting in Oxford?”

  Alfilda bit her lip. “Cnut is a tough devil—a lesson we paid far too dearly to learn. But I think he’s also a wise man, because he says this meeting of a combined Witenagemot and Thing will mark a new beginning. He wants to sow the seeds of a single unified kingdom here, one where all his peoples—Saxons, Angles, and Danes—will live bound by the same laws and with the same rights and obligations.”

  “And Oxford is a better place to achieve that end than any other,” Winston said, leaning across the table.

  “Yes,” Alfilda said, nodding. “Oxford has been the flashpoint of the hatred between the English and Danes. By making it the birthplace of a new national peace, Cnut is demonstrating that he means what he says.”

  “Hmm,” Winston said, tugging on his beard. “That explains why Ælfgifu asked me to come here. Do you know where I can find the Lady of Northampton?”

  Alfilda shook her head. “The king has been here for a few days, but I haven’t seen or heard anything of either Lady Ælfgifu or Queen Emma.”

  “Well, I’ll find her easily enough. Any Danish soldier is bound to know where she is.” Then something occurred to Winston. “The town is full of people, and yet you still have a room available for us?”

  “Yes, yes.” The alewife ran a hand through her hair, shaking it so that a cascade of gold streamed over her shoulders. She certainly was pretty. “The king’s shire reeve has a hall in town that Cnut has taken over. He ordered everyone else to pitch camp north of town. He ordered them all to camp together, with the Angles’, Danes’, and Saxons’ tents all mixed up side by side. Only the king’s housecarls and noblemen with special lea
ve from the king are permitted to take rooms in town.”

  It was clear that she considered this to have been a wise move on the part of the king, and I was inclined to agree with her. First, it kept all the soldiers apart from his own bodyguards out of town. Second, it ensured that there were no enclaves within the camp where single ethnic groups could gather and hatch plots.

  Winston stood up. “Then I know where I can find Lady Ælfgifu.”

  I stood up as well, raising a curious eyebrow at him.

  “The shire reeve’s Hall, of course. Come on.”

  It wasn’t hard to find.

  We ran into a platoon of housecarls the moment we stepped out of the inn. Since we figured we had a fifty-fifty chance—they were either on their way to the king’s Hall or coming from it—we followed them, keeping about ten paces behind.

  The streets and lanes were even more crowded now, so we moved closer, until we were right behind the soldiers we were tailing. Since the crowds parted for them the way a school of perch parts for a pike, we were able to get through before the crowd closed back in again.

  The king might have ordered that only his housecarls could stay within the town limits, but no man of importance, be he Saxon or Dane, would dream of going anywhere without his retinue, so there was no lack of soldiers following behind their masters, all eyes vigilant. Cnut’s personal housecarls lined the major streets, standing a few feet apart, warily watching the crowd. Not a single one of these battle-hardened men was slouching or even resting on his spear shaft.

  After walking for a while through the lattice of narrow lanes, which were lined with the kitchen gardens and fences that surrounded the bigger houses, we came to a large square with a log building at its center. The Hall was half a spear-throw long and wider than two townhouses. The roof was freshly thatched, and the smoke rising from the smokehole was white from proper, dry firewood.

  Three guards stood at the front entrance, which was wide enough for four men to enter abreast, with two more to either side of it. A platoon of housecarls lined the square in front, each with his spear butt resting at his feet and loins girded with heavy swords.