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

by Martin Jensen

  I was hungry, but didn’t dare leave the safety of the open square. So I called over a girl who was walking by and she agreed to go to a tavern and get us some ale and bread. I gave her a quarter of a coin for her troubles when she returned with our fare, and Winston and I dug in.

  My full belly and the ale made me even sleepier than before, and I must have nodded off for a bit, because I didn’t see or hear the guard approaching. His foot in my side made me sit up with a start. Reaching for my sword, I instinctively rolled to my right to avoid the blow I figured was headed my way.

  “Calm down,” said the guard. I squinted at him. “The king is waiting for you.”

  When we stepped into the Hall, only the king’s permanent three-man retinue was sitting with him, but Baldwin stood before him with his staff in hand.

  “So the heregeld has been paid?” Cnut asked, sprawling in his chair.

  “Fifty-five thousand pounds are in safe storage over yonder,” Baldwin confirmed. He noted our arrival, but continued impassively: “I’ve had a message from London that their ten and a half thousand pounds are being stored by the reeve you put in charge of the town. The bishop in Winchester wrote that he has eleven thousand pounds. And finally, I have received letters from Lombardian, French, and English merchants that they will guarantee the last seven thousand pounds.”

  “Good,” the king said, leaning back, satisfied. “The heregeld is paid. Now I can fulfill my end of the deal and meet with the Witenagemot and the Thing.” Cnut looked over at us. “Do you have news that will secure you my mercy?”

  Winston stepped up to the king and I followed.

  Torold and Ulfrid’s clothes displayed their rank as well as their wealth as they stood before the king, and their swords hung from their heavy, silver-inlaid belts. Only the four housecarls behind them suggested that they were at risk of not leaving the Hall as free Saxon noblemen.

  “My man Winston has presented evidence against you,” the king said, his voice stern. “He speaks convincingly of the indications he has found that one of you is a murderer.”

  I saw Torold eyeing Winston and clutching at his sword hilt. Though he remained calm, his voice was shrill when he spoke. “He’s lying.”

  “He is?” The king looked from Torold to Ulfrid, who both nodded.

  “I find him very convincing,” Cnut said.

  Ulfrid moistened his lips and peered behind the king. I looked to see what he was looking at. Thorkell’s face was blank.

  “You wanted to avenge your sister,” Cnut said, making it sound as though this were the most natural thing in the world.

  The brothers exchanged looks and I saw them exhale with relief. But I could have told them that: Winston was a man of his word.

  “It is a man’s right and obligation to avenge his kin,” Ulfrid said and then slid his tongue over his lips again. “But we are not guilty of the charge that has been raised against us.”

  “You’re not?” Cnut said, appearing almost puzzled.

  “We evoke the wager of law. We will swear our innocence and find the required number of men to support us,” Torold said, speaking so quickly that his words tripped over each other.

  The king was obviously going to refuse Torold’s request. The evidence against them was so strong that no one would blame him if he declared them guilty on the spot.

  I was wrong.

  Cnut looked at Wulfstan, who nodded and stated, “Such is the law.”

  “I know the law,” the king’s voice cut through the air. His eyes were on the brothers. “Tomorrow you will stand before the Witenagemot and the Thing and swear to your innocence in this case.”

  Ulfrid and Torold moistened their lips.

  Cnut snapped at Godskalk, and he led the accused out of the room.

  Cnut looked at Winston and me. “I will see that you two are rewarded tomorrow.”

  The late spring twilight had settled over the square by the time we stepped outside.

  “So that was all for naught,” I said. Winston turned and looked at me.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “The murderer is going to go free,” I said. “I bet the noblemen in that lodging house spent the entire afternoon deciding which of them would swear to Torold and Ulfrid’s innocence.”

  Winston nodded. “The murderer will go free, yes. But for naught? At least we won the king’s favor.” Winston stretched. “And now, Alfilda awaits me.”

  I stared at his back in astonishment as he walked off toward the inn. Halfway across the square, he turned around and called to me, “Would you do me a favor and check on Atheling?”

  Frida had said she was busy, but I thought I would surprise her anyway. She was bound to be free at some point, and I was in no mood to spend the evening in the tavern watching Winston and our hostess cast sheep’s eyes at each other. I was not ready to see Alfilda in this new light.

  I walked slowly through the camp. Though there was a buzz of activity in and right around the tents, the mood was relatively calm. It was as though the camp itself shared the anticipation of its inhabitants for the next day.

  The guard in front of Tonild’s tent recognized me and nodded back to me, but shook his head at my inquiry. He had no idea where Frida was.

  “Where is she staying?” I asked.

  He scratched his scalp and, after thinking about it for a while, decided she was sharing a tent with two other girls over behind the kitchen area.

  I headed over there. I heard low voices and laughter coming from a cluster of small, patched tents that were competing for space by the cooking fires, and had to ask four different girls before one finally pointed to a ramshackle tent at the edge of the camp.

  When I got there, I heard Frida’s voice inside. She was speaking quietly and slowly and I understood that she wasn’t alone, but I had no qualms about allowing a coin to buy us some privacy from her tentmates.

  I cleared my throat, but nothing happened. So I called her name. It went quiet inside, so I repeated, “Frida!”

  “Who is it?” she called.

  “Me, Halfdan.”

  I heard an exclamation of surprise, then the tent flap was flung aside and a broad-shouldered male farmhand stepped out. “What do you want?”

  “I have business with Frida,” I said, staring at him in surprise.

  “Oh you do?” he said, glancing nonchalantly at my sword. “And who are you?”

  “Halfdan. And you?”

  “Frida’s boyfriend,” he said.

  Over his shoulder I saw Frida’s head sticking out from beneath a blanket she had wrapped around herself.

  “Do you know him?” the guy asked, turning to her.

  “That’s him, the guy who saved my life yesterday,” she said, and then looked at me and shrugged her shoulders apologetically.

  “Then I owe him a thank you,” he said, sticking out his fist.

  I turned around and left. I might as well go check on Atheling.

  Chapter 36

  I’ve never seen so many people at one time as were gathered that morning in the meadow by the river. The meadow was flat and dry, though presumably it was a mud pit in the winter. A platform had been erected at the edge of the meadow by a grove of trees and was now surrounded by about twenty grim-looking housecarls. Two chairs sat in the middle of the platform, one taller than the other, and another two were positioned off to one side behind them.

  A wide area had been cleared around the platform. Beyond that, rows of men radiated outward like the spokes of a wheel. To the left, Englishmen, to the right, Danes and Vikings. Housecarls stood everywhere, evenly spaced five paces apart, and the meadow itself was surrounded by soldiers, whose eyes never lost their focus and whose limbs remained tensed in a state of readiness.

  Behind them was row upon row of farmers, servants, peasants, craftsmen, merchants, conmen, and street performers—in short, anyone curious to see how the noblemen of England would get along that day.

  Winston and I had been instructed t
o stand behind the platform. From there we watched as Wulfstan led in a procession of a dozen singing clergymen. Then came Cnut, dressed in bright red and blue and wearing a massive gold crown over his dark blond hair. The sword at his loins gleamed silver, and his belt was heavy with gold. Ealdorman Godwin and Jarl Thorkell followed behind him.

  The king sat down. After the song had finished resounding over the meadow, the aging archbishop led a prayer in his high, slightly trembling voice. Then he, Ealdorman Godwin, and Jarl Thorkell stepped over to the king. The archbishop sat down next to him, and Godwin and Thorkell behind him. Then the king looked out over the gathering, which fell silent, like a flock of chickens who’ve spotted a hawk.

  Cnut let the conspicuous silence go on for six heartbeats, then he stood up and began: “Men—Englishmen, Danes, and Vikings—all different peoples, but of the same origin. All compatriots from this day forward. Today we create one country together. Today we forge a unity that will prevail everywhere my power reigns.

  “But before that we have an important matter to resolve. A man was murdered recently here in Oxford, a Saxon. Everyone immediately started eyeing each other with suspicion. The Saxons claimed the Danes killed him. The Danes and Vikings thought the Saxons must have done it themselves. And yes, some even dared to say he was murdered on my orders.”

  The eyes above his hooked nose surveyed the gathering sharply before he continued: “But, men! The law will prevail in this country. That is why I asked knowledgeable men”—he gestured at us with his hand—“to investigate the death, and their labors have borne fruit. They have presented me with compelling evidence that Osfrid the Saxon was murdered as an act of revenge for a woman’s death.

  “But the law will prevail here,” Cnut said, glancing over at Wulfstan. “And the law says that no man is guilty if he is willing to swear to his own innocence along with twelve compurgators, who agree to swear that they believe the defendant. If that occurs, the evidence will be deemed invalid and dead. Step forward, Ulfrid and Torold sons of Beorthold.”

  It was so quiet as the two brothers stepped forward that a lark could be heard darting over the meadow on the far side of the river. They were dressed as they had been the night before and still carried their swords.

  The king eyed them sharply. “You have heard the charge that has been made against you?”

  They nodded.

  “And what is your response?” the king asked.

  Ulfrid answered for both of them: “We bear no guilt in this case, my lord.”

  “And you will swear to that?” the king asked.

  “We will,” Ulfrid said.

  The king nodded and Torold stepped forward. Whereas Ulfrid had appeared calm as he answered the king’s questions, Torold cast an angry glance our way, rocked impatiently on his feet, and fingered the hilt of his sword. It was wise to let him swear first.

  Torold turned toward the crowd, raised his right hand to shoulder height, and swore in a loud voice: “To the charge of murder, which has been raised against me, I swear to my innocence.”

  “Are there men who will swear with Torold Beortholdsøn?” Cnut asked, looking over Torold’s shoulder.

  Twelve Saxon noblemen stepped forward willingly, all of whom I recognized from the day before. I saw the pride in their faces, but also discerned in their eyes their insecurity over whether Winston had kept his word.

  Botwolf took the lead and was the first to swear his oath to Torold’s innocence. The others each swore in turn after him.

  “Good, Torold,” Cnut’s voice boomed over the meadow. “You’re free and clear of this charge. Take your place among my noblemen.”

  When Torold had assumed his place with the noblemen, the king looked at Ulfrid, who stepped forward and swore the same oath as his brother.

  The king looked briefly at Winston and me, then his voice boomed over the gathering: “Are there men who will swear with Ulfrid Beortholdsøn?”

  Not one stepped forward.

  I saw profound despair in Ulfrid as he scanned the ranks of his coconspirators.

  No one moved. Ulfrid’s eyes darted from one to the next in disbelief.

  “Ulfrid Beortholdsøn,” Cnut’s voice cut through the air like a knife through tallow. “Your own people have judged you. Is it true,” Cnut turned to Wulfstan, “that Saxon law says that he who commits murder in the king’s presence is sentenced to death?”

  The archbishop cleared his throat. “It does not please the Lord that we kill each other. A dead man cannot repent his sin.”

  “Answer my question.” Cnut’s face was dark with rage.

  “Yes,” Wulfstan admitted, deflating a little.

  “Your life is mine to take, as you heard,” Cnut said, causing Ulfrid to cringe. “And this would atone for your earthly guilt. But as the archbishop states, a dead man cannot repent his sin, and it is the Lord’s will that sinners should be given the right to repent. Therefore I do not pronounce the sentence that I could.” He turned to Wulfstan. “What is the wergeld for a thane?”

  “Twelve hundred silver shillings,” Wulfstan answered succinctly.

  “That is the sum you must pay to Tonild, Osfrid’s widow,” Cnut announced, his eyes wandering over the rows of Saxon noblemen. “Another man was also killed by you or at your orders, a Saxon soldier. The wergeld for him is two hundred silver shillings.”

  I noticed that the king didn’t need to ask the wergeld price for a soldier.

  “You must pay that fine to his wife, who has been left with a child to care for,” Cnut announced. The men of the Witenagemot nodded in acknowledgment.

  “Surely there are men who will assist you if you cannot raise these sums alone. Thus there is no reason for you not to pay and close this case,” the king said. A deathly silence fell upon the crowd as he sat down.

  Epilogue

  The king was gray from fatigue when he received us that evening. Still, he was smiling. And I understood why.

  Cnut had proved that morning not only that he knew how to issue a ruling that was both fair and in accordance with the law, but also that he was willing not to act on knowledge that he had. As a result, the noblemen had willingly agreed that he was the king, one who would reign in accordance with those laws that had been in force up to that point. Wulfstan had been charged with writing a draft of a new set of laws, drawing its provisions from the best of all the preceding laws, but until such time as that was ready, all the noblemen—Danes, Angles, Saxons, and Vikings—had sworn to live under the old laws, which they were familiar with from the time of King Edgar.

  Willingly, yes. But it had been a long day, with many words spoken.

  “You fulfilled your task and have thoroughly earned my grace,” the king said, smiling at us despite his exhaustion.

  We bowed.

  “But,” he continued while the earls fawned, “you can’t live off my grace. I promised you a reward. What would you like?”

  Winston and I looked at each other. Winston cleared his throat.

  “It is not our place to choose our price, my lord.”

  “If I ask you to, it is,” Cnut said, staring at me now.

  I knew my answer and wasn’t as humble as Winston, as I’d learned that humility never pays.

  “I lost my family’s estate, my lord.”

  “You want an estate? To be a nobleman again?” Cnut asked me, his brow furrowed.

  I nodded.

  “I have enough noblemen,” Cnut said, rubbing his chin. “Men who can think and act for me are in much shorter supply.” He paused. “No,” he finally said, “I am not going to make you a nobleman. I might require your services again. You shall receive a pound of silver each, in addition to my good graces.”

  Modesty isn’t rewarded. Neither, it seems, is an honest request.

  About the Author

  Photograph © Ilona Dreve

  Bestselling Danish novelist Martin Jensen was born in 1946 into a working class family and worked as teacher and headmaster in Sweden and D
enmark before becoming a full-time author in 1996. He and his wife collect mushrooms and fungi, enjoy bird watching, and are botanical enthusiasts. Martin Jensen is the author of twenty-one novels. The King’s Hounds is his first title to be published in English.

  About the Translator

  © 2006 by Libby Lewis

  Tara Chace has translated more than twenty novels from Norwegian, Swedish, and Danish. Her most recent translations include Martin Jensen’s The King’s Hounds, Camilla Grebe and Åsa Träff’s More Bitter Than Death, Lene Kaaberbøl and Agnete Friis’s Invisible Murder, Jo Nesbø’s Doctor Proctor’s Fart Powder series, and Johan Harstad’s 172 Hours on the Moon.

  An avid reader and language learner, Chace earned her PhD in Scandinavian Languages and Literature from the University of Washington in 2003. She enjoys translating books for adults and children and lives in Seattle with her family and black lab, Zephyr.