Ulfrid and Torold glared at me in shock. The Dane they had been talking to cursed and yelled for them to get out of there. Then he howled at my attacker to finish me off before running down the passageway himself, followed closely by the two Saxon brothers.
The Viking roared—from pain or rage, I didn’t know or care—and started hacking at me with such strong, rapid blows that he drove me backward up the passageway. He swore nonstop, feinting at my face and sneering scornfully as I feinted at him. When I pulled my sword up, he brought his own down onto it, knocking my sword out of my hand and me to the ground.
And then he made his second mistake.
I had instantly realized he was a better swordsman than I was. As I lay there in the dusty passageway, still reeling from the blow that had knocked my sword out of my grasp and into the dirt, tears of rage formed in my eyes at the knowledge that he needed only one more strike to finish me off. I was lying on my back, trapped against a wall, and I shouldn’t have had the slightest chance of escaping his sword.
But then he took a step back to taunt me before killing me.
“You Danish scum!” he swore at me in Danish. “Not so cocky now, are you?”
And it was then that I recognized him. He was one of the four Vikings who had let me scare them into submission in that hamlet where Winston and I had spent the night on our way to Oxford. Stupid-shit Viking, scared by a fake Danish nobleman. I cursed the fact that I was to die at his hand.
“You killed my friend. Now it is your turn to die,” he taunted me, striding forward and raising his sword.
I saw a glint of sunlight reflect off the blade, tensed my abdominal muscles against the blow that was coming, and closed my eyes. Then I kicked as hard as I could, straight up into his crotch.
The pain forced the air right out of him—and he emitted a whistling sound like that of a pig bladder deflating after children blow it up and then poke a hole in it.
When I opened my eyes, I saw his eyes rolling upward as he doubled over in pain. He twisted his knee out a little, in an attempt to maintain his balance despite the searing pain in his balls. I kicked him a second time and watched as he staggered away from me. I leapt up, grabbed my sword, and brought it down at his neck.
Just as the sword bit into him, someone knocked me down and a rough voice ordered me in Danish to release my sword—something I had no intention of doing. Damned if I was going to kill one stinking Viking just to let his buddy do me in.
“Lie still,” another voice ordered, also in Danish. Then a very strong arm forced the wrist of my sword arm up and twisted it so that I screamed in pain and released my weapon. I was pulled up onto my feet and looked first at the dying man, blood spurting from the gash in his neck, then at the five housecarls who surrounded me.
I realized there was only one thing to do if I wanted to avoid either being killed on the spot or left to rot in a dark, filthy jail. I looked into the eye of the one I decided was their leader and said, “I am Halfdan. Take me to the king.”
Chapter 27
The housecarls treated me roughly, but not brutally. Their leader had had them disarm me but did not insist that they tie my hands behind my back. As we walked up the lane, no one laid a hand on me or tried to force me along, probably due to the fact that I was walking along between them quite voluntarily.
The housecarl who took custody of me didn’t say a word. He didn’t acknowledge my requests, but simply signaled his men and me with a toss of his head to keep moving. After leading us through countless narrow passageways, lanes, and streets to the square, he did not head toward the Hall as I’d expected him to, but instead turned in behind it. He stopped at a building that I guessed was the housecarls’ quarters, judging from the large number of behemoth soldiers sitting, standing, and lying in the grass in front of it.
I took a couple of quick steps, caught up to him, and grabbed his arm. I repeated my demand to be taken to the king. He walked away without a word—much too easily for my sense of self-respect—and barked at two housecarls standing outside a massive door. He stepped aside as the door opened and someone shoved me in from behind.
When I turned around to protest, I found myself staring at the door, which had already been shut behind me. I was immersed in darkness, with the only faint light coming through the slits in the shutters covering a window. The room was very small. When I stretched my arms out and turned, I could touch all four walls. There was no chair, not so much as a footstool, and there was certainly no bed.
I thought about yelling to the housecarls outside, putting up a stink about who I was, and demanding again to be taken to the king, but I realized I would be wasting my breath. The housecarl who had brought me in knew who I was, he’d heard me demand to see the king, and he’d simply chosen not to care.
I sat down on the dirt floor, leaned back against the rough-hewn wall boards, and began mulling over the fact that another of those Vikings I had recently sent packing from that Saxon hamlet had shown up out of the blue with his weapon raised, very obviously trying to kill me.
And here we’d been thinking it was significant that everyone we’d met during our investigation was Saxon. I very calmly rejected that theory: Clearly there were at least a couple of Vikings involved.
I mulled over what I had heard through the wall before I was attacked: Osfrid’s brothers-in-law meeting with a Dane. I assumed that the Viking who attacked me was a guard, and when he saw me eavesdropping on his employer, he was ready to murder me on the spot. The question was whether he wanted to kill me because I was eavesdropping or because he wanted revenge. After all, I had killed his buddy after making a fool of him and his pals by lying to them.
I convinced myself it was the former. He attacked so quickly, there was no way he had a chance to recognize me first. It was just such a coincidence that his colleague had tried to do the same thing the day before.
I thought back to the snippets of the men’s conversation that I’d been able to hear from outside.
They’d been talking about something that was “stupid”; they mentioned that “murdering a girl could” something; and they had said something about not understanding orders.
Could the order have been that I was supposed to be murdered?
I was the one who had assumed the Viking was trying to kill Frida. Why had I assumed such a thing? I thought back to the seconds after I killed the axman. I had dismissed the possibility that he had randomly recognized me and decided to exact revenge, because I had thought that a man like him would simply have drawn his weapon the instant he remembered me and not stalked me down to a secluded spot on the riverbank. That’s why I had assumed he was targeting Frida.
But now things looked different.
I had told Cnut the day before that I had killed a man who was trying to kill a young girl. So I was the one who had started that rumor. Based on what I had overheard, even the people who were trying to kill me had believed it. That would explain what the Dane meant by “not understand the order.”
I suddenly realized that Winston had been right in refusing to tell Cnut what we had learned. Winston had said, “If I mention a suspicion tonight, tomorrow the rumor will be all over the place.” Boy, had he been right about that. Yesterday I had said aloud something that turned out to be wrong, and now even the people issuing my attackers their orders believed what I had said to be the truth.
Who had heard me say that yesterday? The king. Jarl Thorkell. Ealdorman Godwin. And the archbishop. As well as everyone else who had been close enough to hear us in the Hall.
But not everyone in the Hall had reason to want me dead.
Only the person who was afraid of what I knew wanted that.
I stood up, suddenly struck by a thought. I pounded on the door and yelled that someone should send a messenger to Winston at Alfilda’s inn.
Whatever I knew, Winston knew it too.
When they finally opened the door of my cell, a pale yellow moon was drifting across the sky, and I was hungry
in a way I hadn’t been since I had started working for Winston. Godskalk was standing in the doorway.
“At last!” I said, stepping toward him, hunger screaming in my belly. “Does anyone know where Winston is?”
No response. The housecarl turned on his heel and led me around the Hall to the front door, where the guards admitted us. I noted that no other housecarls followed us.
Winston was waiting in the Hall. I have no idea who told Winston where I was, but I had to admit I was very relieved to see him. He was standing calmly before the king’s chair, looking relaxed with his hands behind his back and his head cocked, and watched me as I walked across the room. I stopped beside him and found it difficult to keep the resentment out of my voice.
“I had to kill another man. What have you been up to?”
“Painting,” he replied.
I opened my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, but stopped when the king cleared his throat loudly. Cnut was sitting in his chair. Wulfstan was at his side, as usual. Godwin sat behind him to the right, Thorkell to the left. King, Church, Saxon, Viking.
“Have you decided to make a habit of killing Danes in my town?” Cnut asked me, his eyes fuming with anger.
“Only when they’re trying to kill me,” I replied. I hesitated slightly and then decided that I might as well cast the stone. A dog that’s been hit just might bark. “It is not my fault that my cowardly attackers are lesser warriors than myself.”
The king appeared disinterested. The archbishop shook his head sadly. The smile that any Saxon would allow himself at the death of a Viking played over Godwin’s lips. Jarl Thorkell yawned.
“Please continue,” Cnut said, his tone more of a command than an invitation. I looked at Winston, who indicated that there was no longer any need to hold back what we knew so far. So I briefly recounted how I had followed the two Saxon brothers, how they had met with a Dane, how I had been attacked, and what came after that.
Cnut listened in silence. By the time I had finished, Cnut did not look any less angry.
“So you followed those two because you believe they’re guilty of Osfrid’s murder?” Cnut asked.
I snuck a glance at Winston, but he remained perfectly still.
“I followed them because I had to do something,” I said.
The king scoffed. “So it was simply a coincidence that you happened to follow them?”
“Actually, yes,” I said. I decided I didn’t care what Winston thought. “My partner, Master Illuminator here, had returned to the tavern, and I needed to do something.”
“And I’m supposed to believe that?” The king’s face showed that he did not.
“That is the actual, plain truth,” I said with a shrug.
Cnut turned his attention to Winston.
“You went back to the tavern? So you haven’t been working on the assignment I gave you,” Cnut said accusingly.
“Yes I have,” Winston replied with a quick smile. He ignored my look of astonishment. Hadn’t he just said he’d been painting?
“And are we any closer to an answer?” Cnut asked, not taking his eyes off Winston.
“Possibly,” Winston replied. “As it so happens, I believe that I will be able to see the truth soon.”
I surveyed the ealdormen and the earls again. None of them so much as twitched. And yet Winston had just turned himself into an even more obvious murder target than me.
The king looked back at me.
“So you are not claiming that these two brothers … Ulfrid and … and Torold … are not murderers?”
“I am claiming that I don’t know whether they are or not,” I said, quickly adding, “Just as I don’t know whether other people are. Or are not.”
“Hmm,” Cnut said, squeezing the armrests of his chair. “And this Dane you mentioned?”
I had spent a good portion of my time in lockup thinking about him. I had gotten only a quick glance at him before he disappeared down the passageway, but he hadn’t looked familiar. Aristocratically dressed, of course, in his early thirties, possibly a little taller than me, light brown hair.
I shook my head. “I hadn’t seen him before.”
“But you would recognize him?” the king asked, persistent.
I thought about it. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Cnut’s hand was shaking. From anger?
“My lord,” I said, trying not to sound too impudent. “I was fighting for my life. To be perfectly honest, I was more concerned with my attacker’s sword than trying to remember people’s faces.”
He gave me a stern look. Behind the king I saw Thorkell smile. Maybe since he was a hardened warrior himself, he thought the king should have anticipated my response. After all, it wasn’t as though Cnut hadn’t experienced his share of battle. A warrior knows that a man whose attention wanders while he’s fighting for his life dies.
“And the dead man?” the king asked.
I looked at Winston, who very subtly shook his head. Had he really just shaken his head? I stared, dumbfounded, but sure enough, it was followed by a faint nod. I swallowed my surprise and looked around at the others—who were all watching me, curious to hear my answer. No one seemed to have noticed Winston’s nod. So I took a deep breath, exhaled, and lied.
“I didn’t know him either, my lord.”
I hoped Winston knew what he was doing. We made eye contact briefly and his lips curled into a smile. I was just trying to interpret that smile when the king spoke, his words ominous.
“You have one day left, Winston the Saxon. One day.”
Godskalk handed me my sword as we left the Hall.
Chapter 28
I was struggling with hunger, surprise, and curiosity, but before I managed to put words to any of it, Winston had already gotten several paces ahead of me, and I had to jog to catch up to him.
“Do you want to …” I began to ask.
He eyed me critically and said, simply, “No.”
I stopped short. Winston rushed off ahead of me, never even turning his head to see if I was coming. When he disappeared around the corner, I realized there was only one thing for me to do. My anger growing steadily, I followed him.
Alfilda’s tavern was quiet when I stepped in the door. The only people there were a couple of drunk Vikings, who were just settling their tab with the lovely-chested Emma, and Baldwin, Cnut’s master of accounts. Baldwin nodded briefly to me, yawned noisily, and stood up just as Emma bolted the door after the Vikings. Uttering a quiet “good night,” Baldwin exited through the back door that led to the guest rooms. Winston and I were the only guests left in the tavern.
Winston sat down at the table farthest from the front door. There were already two tankards on the table, and when I sat down opposite him, Alfilda appeared with a steaming bowl, which she placed in front of me.
“I’m betting they didn’t feed you,” she said.
I gave her a look of gratitude, then dug into the stew, which was full of meat and flavored with onions. A wonderful rye bread that was perfect for soaking up the sauce accompanied it.
I ate for a long time. Before I had joined Winston’s service there had been days when I curbed my hunger by filling my stomach with creek water, which would tide me over for a short time before the hunger started tearing at my gut. Winston and I had been eating so well I was out of practice at feeling hungry.
I finally pushed the empty bowl away, downed the last slab of bread, and burped into the back of my hand, then sent a benevolent look across the table to our hostess. As my stomach filled, my anger abated.
Alfilda, who had apparently sent the serving wench to bed, took my empty bowl, set it clattering into a basin full of water, and then returned to take our empty tankards.
She brought them back filled with fresh ale and sat down quite matter-of-factly next to Winston, who was rolling his tankard in his palms fast enough to slosh the ale. Then he pushed his tankard aside and looked at me for the first time.
“So. We were wrong,” he said
.
At least he acknowledged the “we” part of it. I nodded. But why was he suddenly willing to talk about it now and not earlier?
“There were people around before,” he said, sensing my question. He seemed amused that I’d been annoyed. “In the future we will speak to each other only when we’re sure no one can hear us.”
I noted that his rule didn’t seem to apply to Alfilda.
Winston took a drink and continued. “The situation is not as simple as it appeared. Is this a plot involving both Saxons and Danes?”
As though I could answer that! Besides, I had my own questions. I looked at Alfilda, who was leaning against Winston so that they were sitting shoulder to shoulder.
“You’ve been painting?” I asked him.
I noted a faint ripple at the corners of his mouth.
“In the past I’ve found I think best when I’m painting. So, yes, I’ve been painting.”
He reached awkwardly behind him to a shelf, pulled a scroll off it, and passed it to me. I untied the ribbon and watched the parchment unfurl. It was a painting of the king, as he lives and breathes. I felt uneasy. It was unnatural to be able to remake a human being as a small likeness like this. I almost expected this miniscule Cnut to start talking or walking across the paper. I handed the scroll back to Winston.
“And would you say that was the case today?” I asked.
He seemed puzzled.
“That you were able to do some good thinking while painting today?” I explained.
“Oh—uh, yes. Well, plus I had help.”
Now it was my turn to look puzzled. Winston turned and looked at Alfilda.
“You weren’t here, but our hostess was happy to listen to me. And she helped me,” he said.
Who was it who had slammed the tavern door in my face? And who had told me to leave? And now he was scolding me for not having been here? I opened my mouth to give him a piece of my mind but was stopped by his upheld hand.
The King's Hounds (The King's Hounds series Book 1) Page 21
