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

by Martin Jensen

  “Where is he?” the warrior asked.

  Before I had a chance to think, my eyes flitted to the space between the tents.

  Winston stepped out and asked, “Are you looking for me?”

  “For both of you. The king requests your company,” the housecarl stated.

  “Please tell King Cnut we’ll be right there, we just have to …” Winston began.

  “Now!”

  I did mention there were five of them, didn’t I?

  The king was seated at a table in the middle of the Hall with three other men.

  Archbishop Wulfstan’s stooped silhouette leaned over the table to Cnut’s right, his hand resting on a sheet of vellum in front of him. A richly dressed Saxon nobleman with curly hair and broad cheekbones stood to Wulfstan’s right, leaning forward on the back of a chair. I couldn’t help but notice that he wore a very attractive sword.

  Thorkell the Tall was seated to the king’s left, leaning back in his chair.

  The king looked up when we entered, but the guard who had escorted us into the room put his hand on Winston’s arm to indicate that we should wait.

  Wulfstan was speaking urgently to the king, who sat with both hands squarely on the table before him, listening attentively. Thorkell’s posture—reclining in his seat with his ass scooted out to the edge of his chair—suggested that he wasn’t interested in what the clergyman was saying, but I noticed the tension in his eyes and understood that his relaxed stance was all for show.

  The Saxon nobleman beside Wulfstan had his elbows on the chair back and his cheek propped in his hand, so I had difficulty discerning the expression on his face. Still, I got the impression that he was following the conversation attentively.

  Wulfstan’s creaking voice was low, so only a few scattered words reached my ears. Words like law, all men, God-given, and righteous.

  Finally he stopped talking.

  The king sat in silence for a while, his hands resting on the table, then he looked at us.

  “My learned archbishop is very preoccupied with the law. As am I. I would like to achieve the best possible conditions for unifying the assembled witan and noblemen of the realm. Can you bring these conditions about for me?”

  Though the king’s eyes were directed at me as well as Winston, I did not speak. Winston, however, stepped forward and responded: “You gave us three days, my lord, and we have used only the first of them.”

  “So your answer is no?” Cnut asked.

  Winston nodded.

  “Out with it,” the king instructed.

  “My lord?” Winston seemed startled.

  “What have you found out so far?” the king asked.

  Winston’s eyes scanned the Hall, which was filled with housecarls, women, servants, noblemen, soldiers, Saxons, Danes, and Vikings. Everyone was silent, their eyes trained on us. They all knew what was at stake.

  “Nothing worth reporting, my lord,” Winston said.

  “Nothing?” The king stood up and slammed his fist against the table. “Nothing? In a whole day you have learned nothing? Is that why you hesitated to come despite my summons? Because you’ve been loafing around instead of doing the job I asked you to do?”

  Then he clapped his hands together with a resounding smack. “Is that how it’s going to be in this country? People simply disregard what the king asks for?”

  The Saxon nobleman next to Wulfstan removed his hand from his cheek, and I saw a smile flicker across his lips.

  “My lord,” the nobleman said.

  The king turned to him with a jerk. “Ealdorman Godwin.”

  So, this was the famous Godwin Wulfnothson, the most powerful ealdorman in England since Eadric died.

  “I am certain no one is disregarding your orders,” ealdorman Godwin said. “Surely there’s a reason for these men’s reticence.”

  Cnut’s gaze returned to us and was almost palpable on my skin. “Well, is there? A reason, I mean?”

  Winston hesitated, then took another step forward. “My lord, Oxford is full of men who are waiting for you to convene the Witenagemot and the Thing. In the meantime, they pass their days doing what has always been the preferred occupation of the idle: gossiping. If I mention our suspicions to you here tonight”—at this, Winston paused to look around the Hall—“by tomorrow morning everyone in town and beyond will have heard the rumor that I already have my eye on the murderer. My suggestion is that you let us carry out our assignment discreetly. In return, you have my word that as soon as I know anything for certain, I will come to you immediately.”

  The king shook his head, unconvinced. “Am I not the king? Am I not within my rights to demand your compliance? Are you not expecting silver in return for obeying me?”

  “Yes, my lord. And if you command me to share with you what my companion and I have discovered today, I will do so. But I would ask that you let us work in secrecy for now.”

  The king scanned the Hall and found what he was looking for. I hadn’t noticed Godskalk before, but he had evidently been there the whole time. “You said you found another man dead,” Cnut said to Godskalk.

  “Yes.” Maybe Godskalk knew more about kings than Winston—and that a brief answer was best.

  “A Saxon,” Godskalk added.

  “A Saxon soldier. Yes,” acknowledged Winston.

  “Who served Osfrid?” Cnut asked.

  “Yes,” Winston replied.

  “And you,” Cnut said, his eyes falling on me now. “You killed a Dane today.”

  “A Dane who was trying to murder a young girl, my lord.” I forced myself to remain calm as my eyes met Cnut’s.

  “A Saxon wench?” the king asked.

  I nodded.

  “Three people murdered, and one who only barely escaped death. And you still don’t think you owe me a report?” the king continued.

  “That’s not true, my lord. We do owe you a report, just not yet,” Winston said, appearing utterly calm, which was clearly provoking the king.

  But before the king had a chance to boil over, Wulfstan placed a hand on his arm and pulled the king toward him. Wulfstan whispered into Cnut’s ear, and after a while the king pulled his arm free and straightened back up.

  “All right. Have it your way,” Cnut announced.

  Winston bowed slightly, and I followed suit.

  “But find the murderer or you will lose my favor,” Cnut said, his voice like a stone sliding across fresh ice.

  Once we were back outside, I began to open my mouth but was silenced by a shake of Winston’s head. He held his breath until we reached the middle of the square. Once he felt that we were sufficiently far from anyone who might overhear us, he exhaled loudly, whistling like wind racing through a knothole. Then he turned to me and said, “Yes?”

  “You play high stakes,” I said.

  “Yes, and we both stand to lose,” Winston replied. When I raised my eyebrows at him, he explained: “If we don’t have our hands on the murderer by the day after tomorrow, we’re going to need a faster mount than Atheling to escape the king’s rage.”

  Chapter 21

  I didn’t like it. And the more I thought about it, the less I liked it: We had made an enemy of the king. Cnut’s words echoed in my head: or you will lose my favor.

  When a powerful man warns that you’ll be losing his favor, it’s already half lost. From now on every word we said would be scrutinized, and even if we did manage to find the murderer, no one would ever forget that a lowly painter and an equally lowly and landless nobleman’s brat had stood in the king’s way, refusing to bend to his will.

  People would remember the murdered noblemen, but for every thane or ealdorman killed, dozens of commoners would pay the ultimate price as well.

  King Cnut understood the power of fear. To preclude further treachery, Cnut had had Eadric the Grasper assassinated the year before, and this had been highly effective, “encouraging” dozens of noblemen to swear fealty to Cnut. A wide swath of battle-dead soldiers, sword-slain farmer
s, sliced-up Saxons, and mutilated Jutes had all driven the noblemen’s subjects to fall into line, as they’d seen that the king was willing to clear not only the trees but also the brush from his path. Countless Saxons and Danes had ended up blowing into the king’s fold as a result.

  The bodies of an insubordinate illuminator and his insignificant assistant would demonstrate what befell those who opposed the king.

  I said nothing.

  Winston demanded that we stop by the stable so he could make sure his bastard of a mule was doing all right. I followed him in silence.

  Atheling didn’t even look up when Winston patted his brisket; he simply continued munching the sheaf of oats that I was sure he had stolen from his pitiable, bullied neighbor. When Winston moved out of the way after petting his beast, Atheling glared at me with his yellow eyes. I spit at the mule and followed Winston out. Evidently reassured that Atheling was fine, Winston pushed his way through the narrow, crowded streets.

  Alfilda greeted us as though we were old friends. She assured us that our room was still waiting for us and that no one else had occupied it, but felt compelled to remind us that she could have made a good shilling by letting us share our bed with two other people.

  The tavern was packed even though it was late. Everywhere I looked, soldiers, merchants, and craftsmen were reaching for plates and bowls and taking long quaffs from full tankards of ale, while noblemen were tucking into slices of roast beef and legs of lamb. Though most of them preferred wine, which they poured from leather flagons, a small number sat with mead cups in their hands.

  Our hostess led us to a small table at the very back of the room, then returned with a dish of meat, some bread, and two tankards of her malted ale.

  Though I had eaten that afternoon, I was ravenous and dug in silently. Winston shared my hunger, for he too devoured his meat and bread, washing it down with big gulps of ale. He was evidently unconcerned by my silence. Instead of talking, he looked curiously around the tavern, sizing up everyone in the room.

  Finally we both pushed ourselves back from the table, inhaled deeply, leaned back, and stretched out our legs.

  Winston gave me an indecipherable look and said, “Well, out with it.”

  “Out with what?” I asked, muffling a burp behind my hand.

  “With whatever’s bothering you. You look like a cloud that can’t shoot off its lightning. Is it that wench?”

  I scoffed. As though worrying about a wench could weigh me down.

  Winston leaned across the table. “Something is definitely bothering you.”

  “Did you really need to turn the king against us and make him our enemy?” I blurted out before considering my words.

  “Oh, I see,” Winston said, leaning back and giving me a half-annoyed, half-satisfied look. “So that’s what you think I did?”

  “A person who refuses to obey the king is not a friend of the king,” I griped, flinging my hands up in irritation.

  “But not necessarily his enemy,” Winston said calmly.

  “We’re losing his good graces,” I exclaimed.

  “If we don’t come up with the murderer—then, yes, that will indeed be true. But does that come as a surprise to you? Did you not already realize that?” Winston asked.

  Now I was offended. “Well, yeah,” I said. “But there was no reason to flaunt it in his face like that.”

  Winston didn’t respond. He sat watching me for a long time, as though contemplating whether it would be worth his time to explain.

  Finally he scooted closer to the table again, leaned toward me, and said, “Actually, yes. I do believe there was every reason to provoke the king. Have you given any thought to why he asked us to investigate this murder?”

  “Because you demonstrated that you could think when they found Osfrid’s body,” I said. Winston himself had heard the king say that. “And because you’re a Saxon and I’m a Dane, as the king pointed out,” I said.

  Winston shot me an arrogant look. “You need to learn that the high and mighty in this world rarely mean what they say. True, you do not have the same experience I do. I’ve worked for archbishops, priors, and abbots. Many, if not all, of them are noble-born, like yourself—not that your lineage seems to be doing you much good these days.”

  He ignored the look I gave him. Did I deserve to be mocked just because the nobler aspects of my bloodline had been buried along with my father and brother?

  “And, you see, churchmen like that,” he continued, unmoved, “often say one thing and mean something else altogether. ‘Of course you can paint it any way you want it,’ they’ll say. ‘Certainly we’ll pay your expenses, Winston,’ they’ll say. ‘We’ll pay what we think it’s worth,’ they’ll say. But such statements are rarely reliable. It’s the same thing when the king says he wants the murderer found—he may actually prefer that the murder never be solved. I mean, so what if a Dane killed a Saxon? Angles and Saxons have been killing Danes and Vikings and vice versa for as long as anyone can remember. What’s one more death here or there?”

  “But the king wants reconciliation,” I protested. There, I had been paying attention.

  Winston shook his head. “Cnut wants unity. He wants everyone to agree that he’s the king. He wants the various parties to agree how the country should be governed. Cnut is being honest when he says he wants law and order to prevail. But he wants it to be his law and his order. Cnut is happy enough to let Wulfstan say whatever he needs to say about traditional Saxon law and the like, and Cnut is happy enough to let the Witenagemot and Thing adopt Wulfstan’s recommendations. But he’ll only let them do that because once the law is adopted, the king is the one who will uphold it.”

  I didn’t understand. “But what does any of that have to do with Osfrid’s murder?” I asked. “If we solve the murder, that can only help Cnut push through whatever he wants adopted, right?”

  “Maybe. Depending on whom we identify for the crime,” Winston said eagerly, but quietly. “Let’s suppose we find out there was a feud between two Saxon noblemen. That would suit the king just fine. Or, maybe we find out it was a Dane exacting a thoroughly justified revenge. The king could live with that, as well, because in both cases it’s just a murder like so many others, and the noblemen won’t make a fuss about it.

  “But, Halfdan,” he continued. “Suppose we find out that the whole thing is more complicated. What if the English are still hoping Cnut will come up a few votes short out in the meadow in a few days? Or maybe there are Danes who would rather that Cnut be a weak king than a strong one? Thorkell the Tall has said very little in our presence, for instance. Don’t forget that he opposed the king until not long ago, fighting for his own power.”

  “I wonder if Cnut hasn’t thought that Thorkell is just biding his time?” I asked. “What if his loyalty to Cnut is just an act?”

  “So you see, my young Danish friend: If we were to reveal something like that, evil itself would be loosed into our midst. That would create obstacles to unity and agreement, and the gathering of noblemen might turn into a witch’s cauldron of discord, accusations, and open fighting.”

  “But …” I began.

  Winston gave me a look of encouragement.

  “Well, but then why ask anyone to solve the murder in the first place?” I asked, still mystified.

  “Because it demonstrates Cnut’s good will,” Winston said, a strained smile on his face. “Because then he can tell the noblemen, ‘I asked a couple of clever men to investigate the murder, but unfortunately they haven’t been able to get to the bottom of it.’ And everyone will say what a shame that is, but no one will be able to claim the king didn’t do his best. And then, we’re just two unknowns, so the king can snap his fingers and be done with us if we fail. If he’d asked any of his own loyal men to look into the matter, their failure would reflect poorly on him.”

  Winston was starting to make sense. “So you really think the king doesn’t want us to succeed?”

  Winston shook his head.
“No. What I’m saying is that it’s one possibility that we have to consider.”

  “But why …” I said, still trying to understand, “why provoke Cnut by standing up to him like you did?”

  He gave me another aggravatingly overbearing smile. “Because I’m actually planning on finding the killer,” he said.

  My face must have betrayed my incomprehension, because he continued, “If the king wants to find out what we’ve learned, that might be because he’s honestly interested in finding out, but it might also be because he wants to know how much freedom he can give us to investigate.

  “If we tell him there may be a plot against him,” he said, “he will be forced to act. And whether he must strike deeply into the English ranks or slash his sword among his own Danish noblemen, any retaliation against a plot from either party will ultimately sabotage Cnut’s chances of creating unity.

  “So our only real choice is to keep everything we learn to ourselves and not open our mouths until we’re sure about our facts,” Winston said. “We had to stand up to him so that he doesn’t compel us to disclose anything, thereby showing we’re not afraid—but we also had to stand up for our right to perform the job he asked us to do, which we shall do.”

  “But we don’t care if he succeeds in convincing his council of noblemen,” I said, starting to think I might be the tiniest bit afraid, but I didn’t see any need to mention that to Winston.

  “We don’t?” Winston asked, somberly shaking his head. “We don’t care if our fellow countrymen are thrown to the wolves again? If Cnut fails, all hell will break loose in this country yet again. This land has been ravaged by war for as long as I can remember. Right now, right here, this is the first real peace I’ve experienced. Cnut may not be the best candidate to be crowned king of all the peoples in this land, but he is the only candidate. So I’m hoping that we find a murderer the noblemen won’t really care about.”

  “And what if we find out there is some kind of plot?” I asked.

  Winston sighed. “Then we’ll need to decide whether we’re going to share that information with the king.”