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

by Martin Jensen

  “My wife died three weeks ago,” he said. “My prayers were for her and the child who killed her.”

  Winston’s voice was kind: “A son?”

  Ranulf nodded.

  We sat in silence for a long while, until Winston said, “I understand that this is difficult for you, but I’m wondering if you wouldn’t mind answering just a couple more questions.”

  Ranulf flung up his hands, indicating that he didn’t really care one way or the other.

  “There are a lot of people staying in that lodging house with you,” Winston said. “Who owns it?” Winston asked.

  Ranulf looked up in surprise and explained that it was owned by a thane by the name of Edmund of Wessex. This Edmund didn’t live in the house, himself. He was too old and infirm to come to Oxford, but obviously not too old to care about money, since he let anyone stay there who wanted to. As long as they were Saxon.

  “And Estrid is staying there as well?” Winston asked.

  “Estrid?” Ranulf gave him a blank look.

  “The woman I was sharing a drink with yesterday behind that market stall. You said hello to her,” I explained.

  “Oh,” he said. He didn’t seem especially interested.

  “She’s Osfrid’s sister,” I informed him.

  He shrugged faintly. “I don’t know anything about her aside from the fact that she’s staying in the same lodging house.”

  “And Ulfrid and Torold?” Winston asked, looking down at the dirt, as though the question weren’t important.

  Ranulf raised his eyebrows, wondering who they were.

  “The brothers of Osfrid’s first wife,” I explained.

  “I don’t know them,” Ranulf said. “But yes—I guess there are two men by those names staying in the house, as well.”

  I could tell from Winston’s eyes that he did not believe Ranulf any more than I did.

  If there’s someone who believes for even an instant that a nobleman—be he Saxon, Angle, Jute, or Dane—would not have a firm handle on who his relatives’ relatives are, then I’ve got a mule to sell him. The ties that bind relatives together, no matter how weak, are what determine inheritances, and no nobleman can help but be aware of even the smallest twig on the thinnest branch of his family tree.

  But to my surprise, Winston did not press the issue. “Thank you for your help,” was all he said.

  Ranulf stood and bade us a polite farewell.

  Winston waited until he was out of earshot and then asked me, “What was it that Estrid said yesterday when you asked if she knew our friend Ranulf?”

  “That they were just staying in the same lodging house,” I said.

  “That’s right,” Winston said, nodding to himself. “Perhaps they’re both telling the truth … but I wonder whether it’s more than a mere coincidence.”

  “That they’re telling the truth?” I asked, confused.

  Winston shook his head vigorously. “That four people who all have reason to want Osfrid dead are staying in the same lodging house.”

  I didn’t respond because something else occurred to me.

  “I’m surprised that you didn’t ask Ranulf about the squabble I noticed him having with those Vikings yesterday,” I said.

  “Yes,” Winston replied casually. “There’s a time and a place for everything.”

  Chapter 25

  We left the alehouse and roamed around for a while. Winston hadn’t opened his mouth since his remark about there being a time and place for everything, and I just followed him as he wandered around, seemingly quite aimlessly.

  We plodded down first one narrow lane, then another, turning more or less randomly into other lanes. We stopped and stared at a strumpet quarreling with a customer who thought he had not received enough for what he’d paid. We browsed the wares of a couple of market stalls, whose proprietors glanced fleetingly at us and then ignored us, since it was evidently obvious that we didn’t intend to buy anything.

  I looked over at Winston several times, but he never looked back; he just kept strolling along with me at his heels.

  The sun was approaching its midday zenith, and my stomach started rumbling, reminding me that the tankard of ale I had emptied during our chat with Ranulf had not been enough to satisfy me.

  When we returned to the square, I stared hungrily at the stall where we had had our ale, but Winston didn’t seem afflicted by the same need for sustenance, wet or dry. Suddenly he stopped in the middle of the crowd and drew something in the dust with his foot. Then he sighed, and continued on toward the Hall.

  I was speculating whether he was planning to pay the king a visit, but just as we reached the Hall, he turned and followed the length of the building toward the entrance to another narrow street that was blocked off.

  The barrier consisted of half a dozen housecarls, who were clearing a path for the king himself, who had just emerged from the narrow street onto the square. He was followed by the same assortment of citizens we’d seen him with earlier, deep in conversation with a mason in a leather apron who was listening attentively to the king’s words with his head cocked. The men around them were either speaking softly among themselves or leaning in closer in an attempt to eavesdrop on the mason and the king.

  The king turned around in front of the door to the Hall, which brought the whole procession to a standstill, and held his hand out to the mason. “So then, Ralf, and the rest of you—we are in agreement.”

  They nodded eagerly. The mason quickly surveyed the rest of the group, then cleared his throat and responded in a deep voice, “We will build a rampart crowned by a palisade. My lord will pay for the materials. We will provide the labor.”

  Cnut nodded. “The people of Oxford will sleep more soundly. To the south you are already protected by the river. To the north there will be this fortification. And,” he continued, raising his voice, “we shall take on this work and other work like it to benefit all the peoples of this land.” His words were clearly meant for everyone present. “Together we will make this country strong, and we will start by strengthening this town so that it may withstand its enemies.”

  Cnut paused and bowed his head slightly, acknowledging the shouts of praise being lobbed at him. When he turned around to enter the hall, his eyes fell on us. “Time and tide wait for no man,” he told us.

  I glanced over at Winston, who bowed quickly.

  Neither of us opened our mouths, I because I had no idea what to say and Winston for his own reasons—or maybe he had come up just as short as I had.

  After the king had disappeared into the Hall, the men in our midst, who had evidently just completed a walking tour of the new town fortifications, all started talking at once. From what I could tell, they were all praising him. Not a single one among them was complaining about being asked to do loads of work for free to secure Oxford against the same kind of attack that Cnut and his father had launched against this town nine years earlier. An attack that had left the town in ruins.

  Cnut had taken the first step toward achieving unity between the Saxons and the Danes when the Witenagemot and the Thing met the day after next. Although Oxford’s residents would not be participating, they would be present, and a rumor would race through the crowds—soon reaching the ears of the nobility—that the conqueror king was using his silver to fortify his kingdom for the good of all its inhabitants. Anyone who thought they might get clever and point out that Cnut had just collected that silver from them would be wise to remain silent.

  Winston suddenly turned to me and said, “It’s no use.”

  I stared at him. “Huh?”

  “They’re lying. Every last one of the people we’ve talked to,” Winston railed.

  That did seem entirely likely.

  “Do they think we’re so stupid we can’t tell?” Winston asked, his lower jaw jutting out menacingly. “All these noblemen with their half sisters, brothers-in-law, and dead spouses. Murdered fathers and stillborn sons. Well, they can all just revel in their own shit.”<
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  And to my great surprise, Winston turned on his heel and made a beeline across the square. I followed him, waiting for him to say more, but he remained silent. He simply stormed through the narrow lanes until I eventually realized he was headed back to Alfilda’s tavern.

  “Hey, that’s a great idea,” I said.

  He scowled at me.

  “That way we can get something to eat,” I clarified.

  “Harumph,” he muttered, spitting on the ground.

  Wasn’t he planning on getting something to eat?

  The look he gave me now was just as ominous. “They can all just revel in shit, I said.”

  “Uh, you mean the king?” I asked hesitantly, nervously casting a quick glance around.

  “Cnut and all the Saxons and all the Danes. Not to mention all the Viking pirates, kings, ealdormen, earls, noblemen, and widows.” He’d reached the tavern door. He turned and all but shouted, “Get out of here!”

  “But …” I stammered.

  “You heard me. Get!” He slammed the door shut, just missing my nose.

  My chest tightened in indignation. I kicked the door open, causing everyone inside to look up, and caught up to him in two steps. My strong grip on his shoulder forced him to turn around. “A day and a half!” I began, on the verge of losing my temper. “We only have a day and a half left and you’re … you’re wasting …”

  I felt him go limp in my grasp. He made no move to physically resist me. Suddenly he didn’t seem angry anymore. He just looked at me calmly and said, “Let go.”

  I let go.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Maybe now we can talk?” My anger was making me sound kind of choked-up.

  He waved me off, turned his back on me, and headed into the tavern. The whole place had gone quiet during our tense little exchange, but the patrons all suddenly started chatting again. I glared at Winston’s back, cursed loudly, flung the door back open, and left.

  Outside I kicked a rock across the street. To hell with him!

  I noticed an overturned handbarrow across the street. I leaned it against the wall of the building, sat down on it, and forced my breathing to return to normal. I was not going to let myself attract the king’s rage because of some lousy illuminator’s whims.

  Once my breathing had calmed, I started thinking. Although Winston was more gifted in this arena than I was, I wasn’t entirely inept.

  What had Winston said after Ranulf left us? That’s right! Could it be a coincidence that four people, each of whom had reason to want Osfrid dead, were all staying in the same lodging house? And then I thought what a coincidence it was that they were all Saxons. And what had Winston meant when he said there was a time and place for everything? And shouldn’t we go find out what Ranulf’s disagreement with the Vikings was about?

  Suddenly my thoughts turned to Frida. I could picture the curves beneath her dress, and imagine her fresh breath on my neck. Should I?

  I stood, my mind made up. But when I reached the square, I didn’t turn down the lane toward the tent camp. Even I had the sense to realize that bedding a wench in the middle of the afternoon when I was supposed to be hard at work solving a murder would probably incur the king’s wrath.

  Chapter 26

  The heat of indignation was still surging within me as I strode down the lane, seething at that louse of an illuminator, who didn’t seem to give a damn about pissing off the king.

  Well, if Winston was just planning on farting his time away in taverns, then apparently it was going to be up to me to get to the bottom of things. And I was convinced there was only one place to start—back at that Saxon lodging house.

  I slowed down as I approached, forcibly containing my rage. Still working to cool down my rapid breathing, I stopped a couple buildings away from the lodging house. Then I walked in calm, steady strides toward the door, and faced the icy stares of the guards.

  “I have some business with Lady Estrid,” I announced, utilizing Winston’s trick from earlier that day of mentioning her by name. “My name is Halfdan.”

  One of the guards, broad-nosed and one-eared, considered me in silence. His companion turned his sizeable back to me and disappeared inside.

  I didn’t have to wait long.

  “Lady Estrid wishes to have nothing to do with you,” he announced.

  I bit my lip, but retreated when they crossed their spears in front of the door. I walked on up the lane, out of their sight, and then stopped. After a while I strolled back nonchalantly and found the archway I’d stood in during my stakeout the day before.

  As far as I could see, there were two possible reasons for Estrid’s refusal to see me. One—she was simply tired of our coming and going; two—she had something to hide.

  There was a lot of traffic in the lane, which made it easy for me to stay hidden but also frequently blocked my view of the lodging house. At one point I pulled a little farther back into the safety of a shadow in the archway, and noticed a stone mounting block someone had stowed to help a person mount a horse. I stepped up onto it.

  Not only was I better hidden but I now had a better view over the heads of all the foot traffic in the lane. However, it was difficult to balance on my perch, and it wasn’t long before the muscles in my legs started protesting. So I had to climb down at regular intervals to avoid leg cramps.

  I don’t know how much time passed—only that I’d been on and off the stone several times—when I was finally rewarded for my efforts. Though several people had exited and entered the lodging house door, I hadn’t recognized any of them until two noblemen stepped out side by side. It was Ulfrid and Torold, the brothers of Osfrid’s first wife.

  They strode purposefully down the lane, looking neither to the side nor behind them. I had no trouble following them through the crowded streets, and the crowds made it easy for me to blend in should one of them look back.

  I had plenty of time to wonder where we were going. The two brothers repeatedly gave way to carts, shoppers, drunken men, whores, horsemen, and housecarls in groups of various sizes. They weren’t headed in the direction of the tent city, which had been my first guess, nor were they headed toward the king’s Hall—which didn’t surprise me—and it seemed that neither of them was hungry or thirsty, because my hope that they would turn into a tavern or an ale tent went unfulfilled.

  I could smell the mud of the Thames and recognized the street leading down to the ford. It occurred to me with a prickle of anxiety that the men might be leaving town, but then I realized that if that were the case, they wouldn’t be on foot. Sure enough, they didn’t cross the ford but walked right past it into a narrow passageway that was so dark it hid them from my sun-blinded eyes. I cursed, thinking I’d lost them.

  An empty lot—where I assumed that someone hadn’t been able to afford to rebuild whatever had been there before Cnut and his father torched the town some years back—created a sunny patch in the passageway, and I easily made out the two tall silhouettes of my quarries once they got that far. I sped up a little to make sure that I didn’t lose them again when they reentered the passageway’s shadows beyond the sunny spot. But then they suddenly turned around and looked behind them.

  Fortunately I happened to be at a spot where two buildings abutted each other. One was set back a little from the other, and without thinking, I flung myself into the shadow created by it, waited a dozen heartbeats, and then stuck my head out again.

  They were gone.

  I cursed. Then I realized they must have entered one of the buildings, because I could see that there were no empty lots or cross streets where I had last seen them standing. I walked slowly forward.

  The buildings down here by the river, far from the center of town, were run-down and rickety, and none of them was more than a single story high. Judging from the small number of people in the narrow passageway, I guessed that these buildings were mostly warehouses and the like. I was just beginning to wonder what the two brothers could be doing in this neigh
borhood when I heard voices behind the wattle-and-daub walls of a building that was more run-down than most.

  I pressed my ear to the wall. The men I heard inside did not seem to be standing immediately on the other side of the wall, but I nevertheless made out three distinct voices. Two Saxon voices, which I guessed and hoped were those of my two noblemen, and a deep, almost rumbling Danish voice that was doing most of the talking—in a tone that suggested extreme dissatisfaction.

  Though I had no trouble understanding the languages, it was impossible for me to hear exactly what they were talking about. I could only make out a few words here and there.

  “ … that was stupid …” one of the Saxon voices said.

  “ … murdering a girl could …” also said by a Saxon.

  “ … didn’t … understand … orders …” said in Danish.

  “ … the king …” said in Danish.

  “ … Witenagemot has to …” said in Saxon.

  Then it happened. I didn’t see him, didn’t hear him, didn’t sense him. He appeared so suddenly that he could have fallen from the sky. I don’t know why Vikings make mistakes—I just rejoice when they allow me to save my own life.

  The day before by the stream, it had been the reflection of the ax in the water that had saved me. Today it was the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath. If he had had the good sense to pull his sword out in advance, before he was on me, I would have died without ever knowing what hit me.

  As it was, the quiet whistle of the blade made me jump to the side, drop to the ground, and roll. When I saw the sword glint above me, I kicked both my feet straight up, and cursed loudly as my toe struck his arm. I rolled away from my assailant’s hissed curses and got to my knees. I drew my sword as I leapt to my feet.

  The Viking swung his sword in a huge arc. I escaped the blade by flinging myself backward, striking my shoulder on the wall behind me as I did so. I lunged and jabbed my sword in under his outstretched arm into his stomach. I felt the resistance as my blade made contact, and then drew the edge of it across his soft abdomen, hearing his cry of pain and then the alarm being sounded behind me as the men emerged from the building.