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

by Martin Jensen

  “Maybe …” Rowena said, thinking about it. “He said … He said the master met someone he knew.”

  I forced myself to remain quiet, which wasn’t difficult since Winston practically barked, “Someone he knew? Are you sure about that?”

  She nodded enthusiastically.

  “Someone he knew. Not a friend?” Winston said.

  She shook her head no.

  “Hm,” Winston said, looking at me. I shook my head to indicate that I couldn’t think of any other questions. But then suddenly I did have one.

  “Did Osfrid go willingly with this person he knew? Did they seem like friends or like people who had some unspoken business with each other?” I asked.

  Rowena considered this for a long time, confirming my impression that she was neither dumb nor particularly eager to please us.

  “He said …” she began and then paused. Winston and I kept our mouths sensibly shut and watched her in anticipation. “He told me that Osfrid said, ‘I suppose I’m going to have to talk to that bastard.’”

  Interesting choice of words: not asshole, liar, or thief, but bastard. If he meant it in earnest, our killer was a disagreeable fellow. If he meant it in jest, it could conceivably have been a friend.

  “You’ve been a real help to us, and I think we’re getting closer to Horik’s killer. Did Horik say anything about what Osfrid and this man he knew were going to talk about?” Winston said.

  “Something about Osfrid having changed his mind,” Rowena said, furrowing her brow.

  “Changed his mind? About what?” Winston asked.

  “That I don’t know,” Rowena said, shaking her head. “Horik thought it had something to do with a deal, but he had no idea what kind.”

  “When did you see him last yesterday?” Winston asked.

  “He came to tell me he was going into town for a while,” she said sadly.

  “Did he say why?”

  “He’d received a message that someone wanted to meet with him. Someone who wanted to reward him,” she said.

  And that was all. Of course she hadn’t asked him who he was going to meet, but we could figure that out. Osfrid’s murderer had been afraid that Horik would put two and two together.

  But then suddenly I realized that wasn’t right. Horik had exposed himself. When we showed up in the camp asking questions, Horik realized he had two choices: he could either talk to us, or let the murderer know that his silence could be bought.

  He’d chosen the latter and, in doing so, his own death.

  “Horik’s loyalty to his master died the moment his master did,” I said, indignant. Winston and I were sitting in the grass outside the camp.

  “Did Horik have an obligation to avenge Osfrid’s death?” Winston asked, then pursed his lips as he mulled things over. “Perhaps. Or to provide for his own wife and child? I think Horik saw the world as it is. It won’t take long for a young widow like Tonild to be surrounded by new suitors. And when she remarries, what are the chances that her new husband would want to keep Horik on as his head of security? A murderer, however, would certainly be willing to pay a pretty penny to buy his silence, well enough that he could secure his family’s future for a while.”

  “Well, aside from the fact that the murderer had no intention of actually paying him. The killer just wanted to cover up his tracks,” I said.

  “Which Horik couldn’t have known,” Winston said, stretching and looking up at the late spring sun, which was quite warm by now. “You know, a mug of ale would hit the spot right now. You don’t think you could …” he nodded over toward the kitchen tents.

  I found Frida with two other servant girls, who giggled when I snuck up behind her and entwined my arms around her waist. She swirled around, lowering the wooden spoon she had been about to strike me with when she realized it was me and reluctantly let me kiss her. I could tell her reluctance was feigned, however, because her lips were soft and opened willingly to mine.

  “You sure are fresh,” she said, twisting a loose lock of hair between her fingers.

  “Oh, I’m sure they’ve seen worse,” I said, winking at the other two girls.

  “Fool!” she exclaimed and then thwacked my elbow with her wood spoon. “That’s for earlier. You gave the lady cause to be angry at me!”

  “But I smoothed things over, too,” I said with a grin.

  After another couple of kisses, I was on my way back to Winston with two foaming tankards. Frida said that when we were done I should just set them by the juniper bush over by where she saw Winston’s silhouette in the grass.

  “Or,” I said, “I could bring them back myself and repay you for the drinks.”

  “I have to go down to the stream and wash the dishes,” she said with a pout. “Just put them in the bush. I’ll bring them back later.”

  After urging her to be careful down by the stream, I made an offhand remark about how I might stop by and see her later if I had the time.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not tonight. We’ll be busy with the washing up.”

  I brought the ale over to Winston, who accepted his tankard with relish. We drank in silence, the only sound that of the ale being swallowed. We were probably both wondering the same thing, which was confirmed by Winston’s question when he finally spoke.

  “So, who was this Saxon Osfrid met?” he asked.

  As if I hadn’t been wracking my brain over the same question.

  “Who the hell knows. At least it’s something to go on,” I replied.

  “Well, there aren’t actually all that many Saxon noblemen here,” Winston said with a loud burp. “And we don’t even have to consider anyone in the entire Witenagemot.”

  “You mean because Osfrid called him a bastard?” I asked.

  “Exactly. You wouldn’t call just anyone that,” Winston said pensively.

  We resumed our silence. I rolled my empty tankard around in the grass and stretched, shielding my eyes from the sun.

  “So it was someone Osfrid knew, but might not have wanted to deal with,” I suggested.

  “The word bastard implies a degree of scorn, doesn’t it? It suggests someone who’s not necessarily a full-fledged criminal, but someone you look down on,” Winston said.

  “Maybe his brother-in-law?” I said.

  “You mean Ranulf the Indignant? Yes, maybe. No one has said so explicitly, but I’ve gotten the impression that Osfrid didn’t think very highly of Ranulf. And Ranulf’s motive is as good as anyone’s. He’s the only person we’ve met who held a real grudge against Osfrid.”

  “Is it really so simple as that?” I said, nodding contemplatively.

  “No conspiracy? No plot hatched by subjugated Englishmen and dissatisfied Danes?” Winston asked with a shrug. “It would be by far the simplest explanation.”

  “But the simplest explanation isn’t always the one that’s true, is it?” I pointed out.

  “Well then, who do you think we should be looking for?” Winston asked, lying down flat on his back.

  After a while I stood up, gathered the mugs, and carried them over to the juniper bush Frida had indicated. Winston was lying perfectly still, but when I tiptoed closer to check if he’d fallen asleep, I could see that he was staring at the sky. I cleared my throat to announce my return. As he sat up, something suddenly occurred to me.

  “There’s one thing that speaks against this Ranulf,” I said.

  “What?” Winston asked.

  “He walks around alone. Does he even have a retinue?” I asked.

  Winston didn’t respond, but slapped his thigh and stood up.

  “There’s only one place we can learn the answer to that,” Winston said.

  So we headed back into town.

  Chapter 32

  By the time we found Ranulf, who was sitting outside an ale stand with a tankard in front of him, the sun had just about reached its zenith. He didn’t appear especially happy to see us. Rather, he looked bored, as though he had been hoping for some sort
of diversion, but was now facing the prospect of further boredom.

  We hadn’t come straight here. By the time we’d reached the edge of the camp, I had so many questions in my head that I stopped Winston with a hand on his arm. I’d been mulling over a great many different thoughts, and wanted to find out why Winston seemed so dead-set on Ranulf before we got any further.

  It was true, of course, that Ranulf appeared to have the most obvious motive. Still, I had my doubts.

  “Tell me,” I said in response to Winston’s puzzled look, “why you refused to question Ranulf yesterday about the run-in I overheard him having with the Vikings.”

  “It wasn’t important,” Winston said.

  “It wasn’t? Not even if he’s the murderer?” I said. I couldn’t have been more surprised.

  “My God, man. I dare you to name one Saxon who can avoid getting into trouble with the Danes,” Winston replied. “If we were to walk through town and the camp right now, we would see no end of arguments among Saxons, Angles, Danes, Vikings, and whoever else happens to be here. They bicker about land, money, slaves, women—all the things noblemen consider important in life. Yesterday, while I was sitting at the inn painting, a Jute and an Angle were arguing heatedly about who had the right to hunt in the woods surrounding their land.”

  “But doesn’t it seem more important today, now that he might be the murderer?” I prodded.

  Winston shook his head. “If he did kill his brother-in-law, he did it himself. He’s proud; his sister said so. And he would have wanted Osfrid to know who killed him—and why.”

  I didn’t agree but left it at that. Instead, I pointed out that we seemed to have completely ruled out Osfrid’s other two brothers-in-law, who had nonetheless nearly cost me my life.

  “Ulfrid and Torold wouldn’t have had me attacked unless they had something to hide,” I said.

  “It was the Dane they were meeting with who issued the order that you be killed,” Winston said, shaking his head again. “I remember you saying that. And it was a Viking who followed that order, not a Saxon soldier.”

  “But Ulfrid and Torold are conspiring with the Danes. They met one in secret. And don’t forget what I heard them saying through the wall,” I said.

  “They’re definitely involved in shady business of some sort or another,” Winston acknowledged. “And their partners are making the wrong moves. You said you heard them say ‘that was stupid’ and ‘murdering a girl could.’ Doesn’t that suggest that whomever they’re conspiring with gave the orders to attack you? I also remember the Dane you overheard said something about orders being misunderstood. If we add all that up, we have a pair of Saxons who, sure enough, are involved in a conspiracy with some Danes, who misunderstood something and gave orders to kill you. We’ll let the king work out the details for himself. He charged us only with solving Osfrid’s murder.”

  I wasn’t going to accept defeat that easily.

  “But don’t you think it would be a good idea to have a chat with that Dane they met with?” I asked.

  “But you said you don’t remember what he looks like,” Winston said, giving me a teasing look.

  Damn him!

  “True. I guess I’ll have to work on simultaneously fighting for my life and taking note of men who scurry by me while I’m doing it,” I grumbled.

  Winston gave me an indulgent look.

  I didn’t ask any further questions. Maybe he was right, and Ranulf was our murderer. If that was the case, all we had to do was prove it.

  Which turned out not to be possible. Once we’d caught up with him at the ale stand, Ranulf listened courteously but clearly disinterestedly to Winston, who began by asking when he had first learned of Osfrid’s death.

  “I guess it was …” Ranulf began, putting on a show of making an effort for the sake of politeness. “When was it you saw me visiting my sister?”

  “The day before yesterday, in the evening,” I said, peering around to see if he had any soldiers or servants with him. But no.

  “Then it was that afternoon,” Ranulf said.

  “Of that same day?” Winston asked, his voice thick with suspicion. Which Ranulf noticed.

  “Yes. Is that so strange?” Ranulf said.

  “It took a whole day for you to hear about it?” Winston asked, disbelieving. “Yes, that strikes me as very strange indeed.”

  Ranulf looked from Winston to me, shaking his head.

  “I needed to arrive first,” Ranulf said.

  “Arrive?” Winston’s lower jaw was hanging slackly.

  “Arrive. Yes,” Ranulf said, sounding smug. “It’s not like eager messengers went riding out into the countryside in search of me to notify me of Osfrid’s death.”

  I stifled a grin at the look on Winston’s face. He looked like someone who had been overly confident that he could jump across a stream and didn’t realize until mid-jump that the stream was too wide.

  “So you didn’t arrive in Oxford until the day before yesterday?” Winston asked, crestfallen. “You didn’t mention that when we spoke yesterday.”

  Ranulf shrugged. “Why should I have?”

  “Did you arrive before or after the funeral?” Winston asked, now looking like a man who had no idea how to turn the battle to his advantage.

  “Before. But as I said yesterday, I had my reasons for not attending it,” Ranulf said.

  Winston seemed to deflate before my eyes.

  “Where did you say your land was?” I asked.

  “I have many properties,” Ranulf replied, sounding outright arrogant now.

  “But where were you staying before coming to Oxford?” I asked.

  “At my estate in Brictisworde,” he said.

  I thought about that. Located in the northern part of the Danelaw, the village was a good three or four days’ ride from Oxford.

  “Did you ride alone?” I asked.

  Now he seemed to be enjoying himself.

  “Are you wondering if I’m lying?” Ranulf asked, amused. “Did I sneak into town, murder my brother-in-law, and then sneak back out again, only to turn around and make a show of arriving innocently?”

  “Just answer the question,” Winston said, his shoulders slumped but his voice sharp.

  “I was accompanied by two Vikings who came to see me at my estate last week with a message from the king,” Ranulf said.

  Two Vikings. I could see where this was going.

  “A message that you should attend the meeting in Oxford?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “No, I have a seat on the Witenagemot, so I received the fiery cross like everyone else. No, this was a message that I should hand over four of the lesser estates within my manor to them,” Ranulf said.

  “A forced contribution?” I asked.

  “Call it what you will,” Ranulf said with a shrug. “The victors always get to name the price of their victory. And the price for me was four estates.”

  Which he could no doubt spare if his sister was right and he had been richly rewarded for his oath to Cnut. What didn’t make sense was why Cnut would be taking land from someone he had just rewarded. No sooner had I had the thought than I realized the reason: Cnut didn’t want his Saxon subjects to forget that he had given them things and that he could just as easily take them away again.

  “And these two Vikings,” I continued, figuring we might as well get to the heart of the matter, “were they the same ones I saw you arguing with the day before yesterday?”

  The young man stared at me in surprise. Then he nodded.

  “They thought I’d tricked them by giving them the wrong information about the size of the estates.”

  “And had you?” Winston straightened up.

  “I told them they could go to the shire reeve and ask him to adjudicate between us. There are plenty of men in the meadow—Saxons and Danes alike—who are familiar with the estates.”

  A man of the law, this Ranulf. At least when he was sure it would be on his side. He defin
itely didn’t seem like a murderer. He left us with a polite, if somewhat arrogant, farewell. Winston looked across the table at me. A wrinkle had appeared between his eyes, and he sounded testy.

  “Well, you were right,” he said.

  “Unfortunately,” I said with a slight shrug.

  “Were you really hoping it would be him? Any particular reason?” Winston said.

  “Then our job would have been done,” I said. I looked around and eventually spotted a girl carrying tankards. When my upheld hand finally caught her attention, she walked over to us, slowly, like someone who’d been on her feet for far too long.

  I asked for food, and Winston said he’d like some, too.

  “Then you have to go inside,” the wench said, her voice hoarse. She gestured toward the door with a dirty thumb.

  We got up, exhausted, and pushed our way in the door just as two drunk Angles were trying to get out. Once inside, we found ourselves standing in a sad-looking establishment, somewhat smaller and much darker than Alfilda’s tavern. Three Danish noblemen were sitting side by side at a long table up against the rear wall with a group of Saxons, and four craftsmen were seated at a round table up front. Between the two groups was a wobbly three-legged table with a stool next to it.

  Winston headed toward it and left me to search for something to sit on. The girl showed no sign of wanting to help me, and it took me a while to track down a folding three-legged chair with a small leather seat, which I finagled into place. I had just enough room to sit down at our table with the long table behind me.

  We were each handed a bowl of unseasoned stew and a mug of ale. My request for salt was met with a cranky retort that I should have brought it with me. So we dug into our bowls of stew, devouring what meat there was, which consisted primarily of cartilage with a few bits of mutton glistening with fat.

  Two of the Danes behind us were conversing loudly; their companion’s contributions were limited to occasional grumbling. The Saxons got up noisily just as the worst of our hunger was sated. We sat in silence over the surprisingly tasty ale, each lost in our own thoughts.

  “Well, I’ll bid you farewell for now,” said the Dane, who to that point had not uttered a word, standing up. His voice made me listen carefully.