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

by Martin Jensen

  “Don’t scold me about that which you don’t understand,” Winston warned.

  “What the hell do you mean by that?” I said, anger sizzling in my ears.

  He sighed, but it was obvious I felt I deserved an explanation.

  “You saw the king’s picture,” Winston said. “Whose responsibility is it?”

  What on earth was this man talking about?

  “What ‘responsibility’?” I asked, wide-eyed with confusion.

  “When the plough boys plough a planting furrow crooked, the plough driver can scold them. When there’s a defect in the hull of a clinker-built ship, the master builder can blame the carpenter. When the wall of a building collapses, the master can admonish the journeyman. When the shield wall yields, the thane can fault the soldiers,” Winston explained. “But if a drawing doesn’t turn out the way it should, the painter has only himself to blame. So every picture I paint is a test of my own strength.

  “And I live as I paint,” he said, pausing. “You think I sent you away because I wanted you gone.”

  “Which is a reasonable assumption,” I interrupted grumpily.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I sent you away so that I could be by myself. So that I could look at the case as though it were a painting I was about to create. And while I painted, I looked at the case anew.”

  He wasn’t making any sense. Had he not just said that Alfilda helped him?

  “Yes,” Winston said, seeming to know what I was thinking. “Although I paint alone, I realized that I cannot do everything alone. When it comes to this investigation, for instance, you and I need each other.”

  “Well, you could have come and found me, couldn’t you?” I pointed out.

  I couldn’t interpret the look he gave me.

  “I could have, but Alfilda was here. I didn’t know where you were.”

  “I was locked up in a cell,” I fumed.

  A nod.

  “I came to get you out as soon as I heard,” he said.

  “Well, you certainly took your time,” I said, glaring at him, irritated. He flashed me a fleeting smile.

  “The king made me wait. He was busy with ‘more important things,’” Winston said, winking at me. “But I made good use of the time I spent waiting.”

  I wavered between a persistent rage at his conceited implication that there was something I didn’t understand and curiosity about what he’d been up to. Eventually I nodded.

  “Well, out with it,” I said.

  “Godskalk summoned me and told me that you had been taken into custody, and why. I demanded to speak to you, which I was not permitted to do. Then I demanded to be taken to the king but was told that Cnut would see me as soon as he was done with whatever he was doing. And when Baldwin entered the Hall, I found out what that was. I decided to put my time to good use, so I ignored Godskalk—who at first tried to keep me in the Hall—and demanded that he have me taken to the body of the man you killed. I was rather surprised to discover that I recognized him.”

  I shivered in my chair.

  “You hadn’t guessed it was another one of those Viking bastards from that hamlet?” I asked.

  “How could I have?” Winston said, looking disgruntled.

  “No, maybe not. But then you recognized him, as I did. So what I don’t understand …” I went silent, thinking what to say next, but I still couldn’t see an explanation for why Winston had wanted me to lie about that. “Why didn’t you want me to tell the king that I recognized him?”

  “Ah,” Winston said, leaning back. Now he looked quite pleased with himself. “Have you ever considered the possibility that when these Viking scoundrels attacked, not only once but twice, you might have been their intended target?”

  “Well, yeah …” I told him my new theory that the first Viking’s ax hadn’t been meant for Frida but for me.

  “I had exactly the same thought when I was standing there looking at that body today,” Winston said.

  “I actually demanded that they send word to you,” I continued. “Because if I’m in danger, so are you.”

  “Which is why you should be quiet,” Winston said with a nod.

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Do you remember what they said when you asked those bastards back at the hamlet who their master was?” he asked.

  As if I would forget something like that. “Jarl Thorkell,” I said.

  “And who was sitting in the Hall?” Winston pointed out.

  “But when the Vikings said they were Thorkell’s men, we didn’t believe them. Well, I didn’t anyway. They were just throwing the earl’s name around to get me to shut up,” I said.

  “Mmm,” Winston said, chuckling. “I noticed you didn’t keep your promise that you would mention them to Thorkell.” Suddenly he grew serious. “But what if they were telling the truth? Maybe they do serve Thorkell. Not as loyal warriors—they were too shabby for that—but maybe he contracts his dirty work out to them. The jarl must have plenty of foul deeds he requires assistance with, so maybe they are willing collaborators he uses for jobs like that.”

  “If that’s true, then Thorkell is mixed up in this whole thing,” I said.

  Winston nodded. “In which case it would be phenomenally stupid of us to let him know that we recognize his henchmen.”

  One of the things I had been thinking in the cell was that Winston and I had been mistaken to assume that this was a purely Saxon matter, and I said as much.

  “I had the same thought while I was painting,” Winston said, looking at me approvingly. “I did say that to you earlier, didn’t I? That we were wrong.”

  “But you really think that Thorkell, the king’s most loyal earl, is involved?” I asked. It didn’t seem likely to me.

  “Loyal?” Winston shrugged skeptically. “His most powerful earl, no doubt about that. But Cnut would be wise not to put too much faith in Thorkell. It wasn’t all that many years ago that Thorkell was the most formidable Viking in England. I’m sure he still remembers. And he’s never made any attempt to hide his willingness to serve whoever benefits him most. Thorkell was loyal to Ethelred, for instance, but only until he thought Cnut would make a better master—or one who could bring him riches and power.”

  Winston’s words made sense. Like many other warlords, Thorkell simply changed sides whenever it suited his purposes.

  “So he’s involved?” I asked.

  “We would be wise not to overlook that possibility, in any case,” Winston said.

  “On the other hand,” I said, “if Thorkell decided that his future is with Cnut, then the ax-wielder and his pals must have been lying.”

  “In which case there would actually be no harm in letting on that we recognized them,” Winston said.

  I looked at Alfilda, who was sitting next to Winston in silence. Silent, but alert, that was obvious.

  “Our hostess helped you, you said?” I asked.

  Winston placed his hand over Alfilda’s.

  “Alfilda listened to me for a long time as I ran through everything that’s happened since we had our first audience with the king. I wanted to see everything in context, so did some thinking aloud while I painted.”

  “So she listened to you. I understand that,” I said. But I obviously hadn’t made myself clear. What I wanted to know was how she had helped. “But you said she ‘assisted you’?”

  He smiled at me.

  “Alfilda pointed out that only one of the killings is important.”

  “Osfrid’s, of course,” I said.

  Another tolerant smile, which annoyed me until I realized that he was tolerating his own shortcomings—and not only mine.

  “No,” Winston said. “The reason Osfrid had to be killed is what’s important. Once we know that, we’ll know who the murderer is.”

  Well, if Osfrid’s death wasn’t the important one, which one was? It couldn’t be the ax-wielder from the day before or his buddy earlier today. Which left only one possibility.

  “Hor
ik?” I asked.

  “Yes, Horik, who was with his master, Osfrid, the day he was murdered. So why was Horik killed?”

  “Because he saw the murderer?” I asked, biting my lip.

  “That is safe to assume,” Winston said and then suddenly yawned. “But as Alfilda pointed out to me earlier, there is something even more important than Horik’s death.”

  Winston paused and gave me a look of encouragement, waiting for me say what that something was. I shrugged in annoyance. Then it suddenly hit me, and I realized what Alfilda was on to.

  “Who knew we were looking for Horik?” I blurted out.

  “Exactly!” Winston said, looking at me triumphantly. “Fool that I am, I didn’t see that detail hidden in the bigger picture. Tonild and Father Egbert were the only ones who knew we were interested in Horik.”

  “So did Frida,” I was forced to point out.

  “A mere servant girl,” Winston scoffed. “She had no idea why we were even asking about Horik. Could she have ordered to have him killed?”

  “We asked Godskalk to keep an eye out for Horik,” I pointed out.

  “So are you suggesting the king’s housecarl killed him?” Winston said, sounding almost amused.

  “Godskalk had his housecarls asking around for Horik. I don’t think we mentioned that they shouldn’t let on that you and I were the ones who wanted to talk to him,” I said.

  “You’re right,” Winston said, biting his lip, “but I still think that Alfilda is looking at this the right way.” Winston looked at her warmly. “Housecarls know how to ask after a man without revealing too much. Tomorrow we’ll look for the footsteps that must lead from Tonild’s tent to the pile of manure where Horik’s body was found.”

  He stood up, yawned, and said, “I’m going to take a piss.”

  I was tired, too. But there was one thing that still needed to be said.

  “Those two Vikings had more pals,” I reminded Winston.

  “Yes, and presumably they’ll want to kill us, too, if they get orders to do so,” he said, turning around in the doorway. “We won’t leave each other’s side tomorrow, and you will make sure your sword is at the ready.”

  Chapter 29

  That night I slept like a rock. Winston was still outside when I crawled into bed, and I was so exhausted that I didn’t hear him come in—or any of his confounded snoring. I woke up alone in bed, wrapped snugly in the blanket, but I found him at our regular table in the tavern, where he greeted me looking as chipper as I felt.

  Alfilda and Emma were busy distributing bowls of porridge and steaming tankards to customers, and I was soon scarfing down a bowl of porridge mixed with chunks of bacon. I washed it down with honey-sweetened ale so hot that it burned all the way to my stomach.

  Winston had apparently finished eating a good deal earlier. There was no bowl in front of him, and his mug was more than half empty. While I ate, he sat comfortably on the bench, leaning back against the wall, relaxing and scanning the room. His whistling was irritating me, but I held my tongue to avoid starting this important day off on the wrong foot.

  I licked my horn spoon clean and dropped it into the clay bowl with a dull clatter. Then I pushed aside my mug and sat up straight.

  “So, are we off to see our favorite Saxon widow?”

  Winston took his eyes off Alfilda, who had just placed a bowl in front of the master of the accounts.

  “That’s where the trail begins,” he said.

  “This is our last day,” I said, thinking it best to remind him in case he was considering whiling the day away painting.

  “Then we’d better get busy,” he replied.

  As we stepped out into the street, I instinctively dropped my hand to the hilt of my sword and pulled the weapon out slightly. It moved easily in its sheath, just as Winston had suggested it should.

  The tent camp was oddly quiet. It wasn’t that the trampled pedestrian streets through the grassy meadow were any less crowded or that there were fewer people in the stalls or fewer guards in front of the noblemen’s tents, but unlike the day before, there were no new processions of noblemen arriving with their retinues, no shouting from men as they erected tents and fenced in horse pens. Everyone who was entitled to attend the joint meeting of the Witenagemot and the Thing had arrived, and all were waiting for the next day to dawn.

  We found the tent but were stopped by a guard as soon as we stepped inside the rope railing that had been set up to delineate the public areas of the camp from Tonild’s temporary residence.

  “I have business with Tonild, the widow of Osfrid,” Winston said, looking quite relaxed. I held my right hand across my abdomen so that it wasn’t far from my sword.

  “My lady does not wish to speak to you,” the guard said in a thick accent I had trouble placing and squinting at me.

  Winston straightened up so that his head was even with my shoulder. His blue eyes were resolute and his voice firm.

  “What Lady Tonild wishes does not matter. Tell her that I will force my way in if she does not allow me to enter.”

  The guard’s eyes swiveled over to me. He opened his mouth in a cocky grin and tilted his head toward the door of the tent ever so slightly.

  “You’re going to force your way in there?” he asked, incredulous.

  Winston waited until four of the guard’s colleagues had stepped over to back him up.

  “You may need a few more men to resist a dozen housecarls,” Winston said.

  “You are a Saxon,” Lord Squinty Eyes said, furrowing his brow. “You have no influence over housecarls.” His voice took on more strength as he spoke, as though he were convincing himself of his own words.

  “I’m here on behalf of the king,” Winston said without raising his voice. “Take your lady my message, or prepare to encounter the king’s housecarls, as well as his rage.”

  The guard decided to comply. After ordering his colleagues to keep an eye on us, Lord Squinty Eyes disappeared through the tent flap. We waited for a while. The four guards stood silent as a wall between us and the tent, their faces immobile. Winston stared down at the turf while I surveyed the surrounding area. I didn’t see what I was looking for.

  At long last the tent flap was flung aside and the guard emerged. He waved us closer. Just as we stepped up to the opening, the priest came out and started to walk away after nodding curtly in our direction.

  “I would prefer that you stay, Father Egbert,” Winston said, stopping at the entrance.

  “Unfortunately I can’t,” Father Egbert replied, although nothing in his face suggested that he actually found it unfortunate.

  “Halfdan!” Winston cried.

  “My companion expressed a request. Now I’m giving an order,” I said, placing my hand on the priest’s arm.

  Lord Squinty Eyes took a step forward but stopped as I stated firmly, “I, too, am acting on behalf of the king.”

  The priest tried to twist his arm free but relented when I tightened my grip on it. I trained my eyes on the guard, who eventually gave a resigned shrug and stepped aside. Father Egbert went limp in my grasp when he realized no one was going to fight for him, and he allowed me to lead him back into the tent.

  Tonild was waiting for us, seated on a chair in the middle of the tent where Osfrid’s bier had stood two evenings earlier. She was alone apart from a girl sitting in the shadows by the wall of the tent, a “girl” who, much to my disappointment, had dark hair and was older than Winston.

  Tonild’s eyes widened a bit when she realized the priest was with us, but she didn’t say anything. Her eyes followed us aloofly as we strode toward her across the carpet of grass. She didn’t open her mouth until we had both greeted her with polite bows.

  “You’re imposing on me, Winston,” Tonild said, a tad acrimoniously.

  “Imposing is a big word to use regarding a person who is here on behalf of the king,” Winston said, his voice gentle. They looked each other in the eye for a moment. Tonild broke the eye contact first. />
  “Are you aiming to be seated at the Witenagemot, my lady?” Winston asked, his voice still mild.

  “The Witenagemot?” Tonild asked, clearly confused. “Since when have women held seats at the Witenagemot?”

  “And yet you’re still in Oxford,” Winston noted, eyebrows raised. Arrogance blazed in her eyes.

  “My husband was murdered! Did you think I would leave before learning the name of his killer?”

  “Well, would you like to know his identity?” Winston asked.

  Tonild started to stand up. Her mouth hung open. Her eyes expressed a hint of uncertainty.

  “Would I like to? Of course I would like to know who killed him.”

  Winston looked from her to the priest and asked, “Why?”

  Tonild was the very picture of confused befuddlement.

  “Why? Why do I want to know who killed my husband? Are you mad?”

  “Why? Do you want revenge? Wergeld? Or merely to know the truth?” Winston asked, continuing to speak calmly.

  “I … I … The truth, of course.”

  “So that is more important to you than the wergeld?” Winston asked.

  I was trying to figure out where Winston was going with these questions. Did all this talk bring us any closer to explaining what had happened to Horik?

  “It … It …” Tonild sat back down and exhaled slowly. “Of course I want the truth. My husband was a good and powerful man, and he should not lie unavenged in his grave. The truth will bring us to his murderer. Once we know who that is, we will know if he can pay the wergeld or if my family will be forced to seek revenge in some other way.”

  “Your family, yes,” Winston said, his eyes narrowing. “Your brother, Ranulf, whom Osfrid denied the right to the family’s traditional land. A man who hasn’t seen you—in how many years? Who didn’t seek you out until after your husband’s death? Do you mean to say that Ranulf will be the one exacting revenge? Or do you have other relations?”

  Tonild’s eyes were sorrowful, and showed no trace of arrogance.

  “No,” she admitted.

  “Your brother Ranulf,” Winston continued, “is someone who had good reason to want Osfrid dead.”