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

by Martin Jensen

  We were interrupted by a polite voice saying, “Excuse me.” I looked up and saw that it was the nobly dressed young man from earlier. It seemed that he had escaped his dispute with the Vikings unscathed, presumably with the help of those housecarls. As I scooted my bench in again so that he could get by, Estrid greeted him with a tasteful nod.

  “You know each other?” I asked her.

  She shook her head. “We’re just staying in the same lodging house.”

  “So you no longer have any financial support?” I asked.

  “Basically,” Estrid said with a tired smile. “I had anticipated this might happen when Osfrid died, so I have set aside a little nest egg. Perhaps enough to convince an abbey to let me serve as a lay sister.”

  I could hear in her voice and see in her face that this wasn’t the future she’d hoped for, and wondered whether her tears at the funeral were the result of grief for her dead brother or the fact that her income source had just dried up.

  “And Osmund?” I asked.

  Her eyes hardened. “My surviving brother just paid me a visit to inform me that he did not intend to continue what he called ‘Osfrid’s foolish flood of silver.’”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Yes,” she smiled wanly. “That’s what he called the few pennies Osfrid had allowed me to accrue.”

  “The few pennies? How much are we talking about?” It was a brazen question and one that I didn’t think she would answer.

  I could tell that she didn’t think she would either, and yet she shrugged and said, “A pound of silver a year.”

  Which was no small sum. Not by a long shot. I could live well, albeit not quite like a nobleman, on a pound of silver. A farmer could support a family on that. It was hardly surprising that she had been able to set some money aside.

  But I knew from experience that a pound of silver was also a lot to have to give up. While I had still lived safely at home, I had paid no attention to money or wealth. But in the years since, I had learned what it meant to live without.

  Then something occurred to me. “Do you have your own estate?”

  “No,” she said, playing with her mead cup. “My mother left me a house with a kitchen garden, a poultry run, and the right to keep geese and ducks in the meadow down below.” The look in her eyes seemed to say: You see? I’m not hiding anything.

  She was quite well-off by any measure. Not rich, but by no means poor. I remembered her soft, pale hands. She obviously did not look after the poultry or other household work herself. She must have had at least one servant girl at home, wherever that might be.

  And that “little nest egg” probably wasn’t insignificant, either. I had a hunch that she shared her sister-in-law Tonild’s fixation with money. And yet, she had been walking around Oxford unescorted.

  That confused me until I realized that she didn’t want to advertise her wealth. Both Osmund and Tonild were meant to think that she was living hand to mouth. I was meant to think so, too—and maybe even take pity on her. Her comment about becoming a lay sister at an abbey had to be a ruse, as well.

  She was a woman who knew how to play the hand she was dealt. But that still didn’t make her a suspect. It would be quite a stretch to think that she was behind her brother’s death, given that he had been the only secure source of income she had.

  “So,” I said, returning to my conversation with Estrid, “Osfrid must have been disappointed when Cnut’s housecarls seized his father-in-law Wighelm’s properties, thereby eliminating any chance of his receiving a large inheritance from him.” I figured I might as well find out what I could.

  “Osfrid?” Estrid said, shaking her head haughtily. “No, he wasn’t like that. He didn’t marry Tonild for her money.”

  I cocked my head, curious.

  “Heirs are the greatest riches a nobleman can have,” Estrid explained.

  “Precisely the kind of riches Osfrid was not blessed with,” I said. A smile that could be characterized as a tad malicious slid over her lips.

  “Tonild is barren,” she said.

  I took advantage of her hatred for her sister-in-law and asked, “Was it very important to Osfrid to have an heir?”

  Estrid snorted condescendingly. “Didn’t I just say heirs are the greatest riches a nobleman can have?”

  “So he might have considered acquiring heirs some other way?” I pried.

  Yet another snort, but this time seemingly at her dead brother’s expense.

  “Osfrid was too straitlaced for that. Faithful as a turtledove. As far as I know, he didn’t even look at other women during either of his marriages.”

  “But would he have considered an annulment or a divorce?” I asked.

  Estrid shook her head, then her eyes widened. My question had evidently made her realize something.

  “If he’d thought about that and then shared that possibility with Tonild,” she said, leaning forward and giving me a wink, “I’m sure Tonild would have had something to say about it.”

  She gave me a withering look, but I stared at her blankly, wondering what she meant.

  “You really don’t know what I’m saying?” she asked, now teasing me. But she continued with her vitriol before I had a chance to respond.

  “Maybe what you found in the merchant’s shed was her response,” she said.

  Chapter 18

  The afternoon was more than half over, and my stomach was growling, reminding me that aside from the ale I had drunk with Winston I hadn’t had anything since breakfast.

  My curiosity about what Alfilda would soon be setting on the table lured me back to the tavern. Our hostess was being assisted by a full-bosomed girl, whose charms were unfortunately marred by a toothless smile, which she nevertheless let me bask in as I squeezed my way over to a table between a foul-smelling monk and a scrawny, fidgety tanner who smelled no more inviting than the friar. Most of the customers only had drinks in front of them—ale or mead, or wine from the looks of their cups—but when I requested food, Toothless nodded and brought me a nice, thick slab of bread covered with ham and grilled onions along with a tankard of malted ale.

  The tavern was doing brisk business and the room echoed with all the languages and dialects spoken throughout Cnut’s vast North Sea Empire, his Viking realms to the east and north and across the great sea west of Ireland. Squeezed in among the Oxford craftsmen and merchants were countless noblemen’s hired soldiers—who preferred the inns in town, where they could escape their masters’ keen eyes more easily than they could at the ale stands in the camp.

  It wasn’t every day that a powerful king visited Oxford, and in addition to the presence of all of the most prominent noblemen in the kingdom were those who simply saw potential for personal advancement by appearing wherever the king was. The Oxonians appeared to be enjoying all the excitement in their midst and had set their regular work aside to rub elbows with the warriors and noble troublemakers, some of whom had helped burn the town to the ground not so long ago.

  Standing in her apron among the cooking kettles and ale kegs, Alfilda seemed to be in her element. Her eyes kept scanning the men and tables. A nod from Alfilda would dispatch Toothless to clear those of customers who had just emptied their tankards and were just sitting around people watching.

  The bread was pleasantly sour, the onions sweet, the ham succulent, and the ale so satisfying that I would have liked to stay for another. But my eagerness to find Winston and hear his report on Osfrid’s former brothers-in-law won out over my thirst. I reluctantly got up and walked over to the hostess, who had just straightened her back and wiped the sweat off her brow with the back of her hand.

  “Good day to be running a tavern,” I said as she smiled at me in recognition.

  Her auburn hair danced over her shoulders as she confided in me that she had had more customers that day than she normally did in a week. “And,” she continued, “you and your companion are lucky I’m a woman of my word. I was offered four times as much as what you’re
paying for your room.”

  I didn’t bother mentioning that our being on a special assignment for the king might have played a part in her willingness to stick to her agreement. Instead I made do with asking if she’d seen Winston.

  “Your charming companion?” she asked with a wink. She lost me there for a second, as it almost seemed as though she were interested in Winston. Unsettled, I nodded. She replied with a shake of her head.

  “Not since the two of you left together,” Alfilda said. Then her eyes widened and she smoothed her apron before giving me a playful shove and walking back into the crowd in the tavern.

  I turned around and recognized Godskalk, who nodded subtly at the hostess before turning to me.

  “Where is your partner?” he asked.

  I smiled obligingly at the housecarl. “I wish I knew,” I said. “I’m looking for him myself.”

  Godskalk rubbed his square jaw. “You asked me to keep an eye out for a red-haired warrior.”

  I nodded, curious to hear what he’d say next.

  “Come with me,” he said, spinning on his heel and heading straight out the door. I gave Alfilda an apologetic look as I followed him. From the look on her face, I could tell that she knew he was Cnut’s housecarl and thane, and she must have felt slighted when the powerful warrior left without enjoying so much as a sip of ale. If word got out that Godskalk drank at her tavern, she would attract other customers—because everyone knows that men like to rub elbows with the powerful whenever they can.

  We had hardly made it out the door when we practically crashed into Winston, who ignored the housecarl, and looked straight at me. “There you are, Halfdan! Good, let’s get caught up.”

  He was puzzled when I shook my head. When I had explained, he turned to Godskalk. “You found this Horik guy?”

  His response was more of a grunt: “You tell me.”

  I’d had to sidle and push my way through the throng in the streets before, but following Godskalk was more like trailing in the wake of a dragon ship. The sea of humanity simply parted before his broad silhouette. It wasn’t that he seemed menacing—or even particularly fierce, really—but even those who didn’t recognize the captain of the king’s housecarls moved out of the way of such a clearly powerful warrior.

  I could tell from Winston’s furrowed brow that he had come to the same conclusion I had, namely that whatever condition this Horik turned out to be in, he would probably not be up to helping us with our investigation. And no doubt Winston shared my anxiety that, even though we were finally going to lay eyes on this man, it would probably be some time before he would be able to answer our questions.

  When we reached the square in front of the Hall, Godskalk did not turn toward the king’s residence, but instead cut diagonally across it, and then ducked between the freshly tarred wall of a house and a half-destroyed fence. He continued up the narrow lane that ran along the pitch-scented houses and stopped at another fence, behind which stood two housecarls in peaceful conversation. Godskalk bent to pass through the opening in the woven twigs.

  The soldiers stiffened at the sight of their thane, greeted Winston and me with brief nods, and then stepped aside so that we had an unobstructed view of a manure pile swarming with flies.

  “Is this your man?” Godskalk asked.

  Our eyes followed where he was pointing. A soldier in Saxon garb lay sprawled on his back over the dunghill, his vacant eyes staring up at the sky, not noticing the swallows flying above. His sword belt was taut, the hilt deep in the sheath, and his tunic was covered with sweat stains. His breeches were tucked into his low leather boots, and the hair that protruded from beneath a well-maintained helmet was plaited into two thick, red braids.

  Winston looked from the dead man’s slit throat over to me and then back at Godskalk. “It’s hard to know. We’ve never met him.”

  Godskalk narrowed his eyes. “He’s Saxon, a soldier, and a redhead,” he pointed out.

  Winston nodded.

  “But we’re going to have to—” Winston began, but then he turned to me and asked, “Did that priest Egbert do this?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Should I …?”

  Winston nodded, but as I turned to leave he stopped me. “Wait! Maybe it’s best if we don’t let them know we found him … in case it is him,” he added. Then his eyes returned to Godskalk’s uncomprehending face.

  “We need someone to tell us if this is Horik,” Winston explained. “But the person or people responsible for killing him wanted to keep us from talking to him. I think it might be a good idea to leave them in the dark about whether Horik has been found.”

  Godskalk shook his head skeptically. “Why?”

  Until that moment, Winston had looked very serious, but now a smile played across his lips.

  “It’s just a thought,” Winston said.

  Godskalk stood completely still. He looked at the body, glanced up the passageway and back at the dead man, then surveyed the little courtyard we were standing in.

  “I think you’re wrong,” he said.

  “Really?” Winston’s eyebrows shot up, intrigued.

  “Osfrid’s body, you’ll remember, was hidden away in a shed,” Godskalk said.

  Winston and I both nodded and then looked at each other. Winston was the first one to figure out what Godskalk was getting at.

  “But this man has been left right out in the open,” Winston said.

  Godskalk nodded. “No attempt was made to hide this man’s body. On the contrary, he was dumped in an open courtyard behind a fence that isn’t tall enough to keep anyone with business in the passageway from seeing him.”

  I cleared my throat. “It seems you are unaware that Osfrid’s body was moved from the location where the actual murder took place?” I asked.

  “No,” Godskalk said, shaking his head. “I assumed he was killed right there in the shed.”

  “Which makes sense,” Winston said quickly, fingering his beard. “Who found this man?”

  “The woman in the house here,” Godskalk said. “You see that window?”

  The window was right over the dunghill.

  “Whoever dumped the body here knew that it would only take a glance out that window for him to be noticed.”

  There was no longer anything subtle about the way Winston was scratching his beard. “This man wasn’t killed here?” Winston asked.

  “How should I know?” Godskalk said with a shrug. “That’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to figure out.”

  “All right,” Winston said. “But I’d still like us to keep quiet about this for now.” He turned to me and grinned. “Do you think Frida is up to looking at one more dead body?” he asked.

  Now it was my turn to shrug.

  “Well, fetch her,” Winston said. “Meanwhile, I’m going to take a look around.”

  It was far more cumbersome to make my way through the crowd now that I no longer had Godskalk to clear the way for me. I was motivated, however, since I was heading in search of an attractive servant girl, and it didn’t take me long to reach the outskirts of the camp where I had first seen her.

  Luck was on my side. Frida was bent over a cooking fire, keeping an eye on that same brass cauldron, whose contents gave off a promising scent. When I placed a hand on her shapely buttock, she straightened up with a jump, and slapped my arm with the ladle she’d been using to stir the cauldron.

  “Leave me alo—Oh, it’s you,” she said.

  “Didn’t I tell you we might meet again?” I said. When I moved to kiss her, she made up for slapping me by opening her lips to mine. The kiss was as frisky as before.

  “Are you free to get away for a few minutes?” I asked. “I could use your help with something.”

  She gave me a disappointed look. “That’s why you’re here,” she said with a pout.

  I shook my head. “That’s why I’m here now.”

  “So you say.” She still sounded disappointed.

  “I mean it. Are you free to lea
ve?” I asked, winding an arm around her shoulder and giving it a squeeze.

  “Here,” she said, handing me the ladle and walking over to a nearby lean-to. As she disappeared inside, I peered into the cauldron, stuck the ladle in, and gave it a tentative stir.

  Fortunately, she returned quickly. “You’ve obviously never stirred a stew,” she teased.

  She was right about that.

  A moment later, a filthy wench with mud-splattered legs came over to us and silently took the ladle from me. As she petulantly began stirring the stew, Frida led me away toward town.

  When we reached the passageway, I stopped. I had deliberately not mentioned the nature of the help I needed, and had changed the topic every time Frida asked on our way there.

  Now I put my arm around her. “You saw a dead man earlier,” I said gently.

  Her eyes widened.

  “Was that your first?”

  She shook her head. Then in a subdued voice she added, “He was the first person I ever saw be killed.”

  “But you’ve seen dead men before?”

  “One, who’d fallen off his horse,” she said. “Why?”

  I told her that I needed her to look at a dead man now and tell me whether she recognized him.

  “Recognize? Is it someone I know?” She shuddered in my embrace.

  “I don’t know,” I said, putting my finger to her lips. “I’m not going to tell you who it is. Will you do it? For me?”

  She nodded, and I gave her a quick kiss.

  Winston was leaning against the wall of the house, and Godskalk was standing next to him. The guards were gone.

  The sun had sunk behind the buildings, and the flies had disappeared with it. Frida’s face froze when she became aware of the dead body in the yard.