But then Conall took in a breath and allowed his emotion to subside. Ottar was dead, and the Danes at Christ’s Church were not responsible for the actions of their ancestors, any more than he was responsible for the deeds of his. The men of Dublin had preserved the little church, regardless of how they’d come by it, and Bishop Gregory was a man of God—who was understandably anxious about finding a body in so sacred a place.
The man lay like a king lying in state before a funeral. But even a king would be laid on a table before the altar, never on it. It mattered not at all that Christ’s Church was a Danish cathedral, or that the bishop was Danish, or that he’d been ordained at Canterbury instead of Armagh. The altar was the site of the Holy Sacrament. It could be used for no other purpose. The sacrilege would reverberate throughout Dublin—and all of Ireland—when it got out. The only reason nobody knew about it already was because the church that had been desecrated was the little one hidden here.
Conall moved closer to the altar, infected by Bishop Gregory’s anxiety and appreciative of his desire to remove the body as quickly as possible. Though the dead man’s surcoat was akin to a Templar’s, upon closer inspection, he was dressed less like a warrior monk or knight than a Danish king of old.
In addition to the massive sword in his hands and the aforementioned surcoat, his gear included a full mail hauberk and its padded gambeson, leather bracers on both forearms, leather pants, knee-high boots, and what could have been a real gold torc around his neck. Rather than a feather, his metal helmet sported two ram’s horns, an arrangement that would be completely impractical in battle and something Conall had never seen before. Conall didn’t know if he wore the horns as a nod to his Danish pagan ancestors or because he had a misguided notion that they were what a Danish knight might wear to war.
Gareth fingered one of the horns. “I’ve seen this done before. One of Godfrid’s warriors had one made, though this is not the same helmet.”
What Gareth wasn’t telling the bishop was that he himself had once worn that helmet as a disguise when riding among Godfrid’s men. Godfrid had made Gareth wear it in order to distract the English in Chester from his real identity. The idea had been that the English would have eyes only for the outlandish horns and wouldn’t look twice at the face underneath them.
The deception had worked, though the aftermath had been disastrous. This had been before Conall’s time, but he’d heard about it, from both Gareth and Godfrid. The events of that week had resulted in the death of Rhun, Hywel’s elder brother, at the hands of their uncle Cadwaladr. The death had ripped apart not only Gwynedd, but King Owain’s heart, and elevated Hywel to edling.
Godfrid’s men were known throughout Dublin, and Christ’s Church was near the palace. It wasn’t impossible that the dead man had seen the helmet and copied it, having no idea of its tragic history. In fact, the more Conall thought about it, the more it seemed reasonable that might be the case.
But other than the gear, the man little resembled a warrior. He was shorter than Conall, more the size of Bishop Gregory, perhaps five and a half feet tall, without the bulky shoulders, legs, and arms one would expect to see in a man who’d trained as a fighter. It was as if the dead man had been a youth, playing at war, for all that he appeared to be approaching thirty. They would learn how accurate Conall’s assessment was when they got him some place where they could strip off his armor.
“I am most disturbed that the body was placed here, in the very heart of the cathedral, in the holiest site in the city—to both Irish and Dane.” Bishop Gregory’s hands were clenched in front of him. “Especially with the wedding so close.”
“I understand, believe me,” Gareth said. “Even knowing nothing about this death but what I see before me, if I can assist in the discovery of how and why this man died, I will.”
Everybody in Dublin was referring to the upcoming wedding as ‘Godfrid’s wedding’, but to Conall and the Irish clans who surrounded the Danish kingdom, it was ‘Caitriona’s wedding’. An Irish woman was marrying a prince of Dublin, thus uniting Leinster and Dublin even more firmly than they already were. That ceremony would take place in four days—barely enough time to cleanse and sanctify the cathedral. The bishop would be loath to move the celebratory mass to another church, however. Christ’s Church was Dublin’s pride and joy. It wouldn’t be fitting to marry Godfrid and Caitriona anywhere else.
Gwen moved to stand beside Conall and said in a low voice, “The fact that the body is in this position does send a very distinct message.” It was just like her to have detected the undercurrents in the room, with little knowledge herself of Dublin’s current politics.
Bishop Gregory overheard. “It is not a message I could ever imagine Harald wanting to send.”
“So you know this man?” Gareth said, rightfully surprised the bishop hadn’t opened with that information.
“He is Harald Ranulfson, a monk in the service of the cathedral. He was specifically tasked in the scriptorium, because his handwriting is so beautiful.” Bishop Gregory paused. “Was so beautiful.”
All of them allowed that thought to settle for a moment, and then Gwen said, “I know I don’t need to point out that he is dressed as if he is about to go a Viking, not as a monk or a scribe.”
Bishop Gregory fingered one of the horns on the helmet as Gareth had done, his face drawn and weary. “I could not tell you why.”
“You are certain this is Harald and not, perhaps, a brother or close cousin?” Gwen asked.
“It is Harald.” Bishop Gregory pointed to a large mole to the left of the dead man’s chin. “I would recognize him anywhere. If we were to remove his gloves, I have no doubt his fingers would be ink-stained.” He looked over at Gareth. “Do you have some idea how he died?”
“I apologize, your Grace, but I can see nothing amiss from here,” Gareth said. “I will have to examine him before I could say more.”
Bishop Gregory’s expression turned even more doleful. “I suppose I should be grateful the altar isn’t covered in blood.”
“Is anything else awry or missing in here or in the cathedral itself?” Gwen began to circle the altar, ignoring the fact that it required her to enter the area of the chapel, as in the cathedral, reserved only for churchmen. As a woman and a member of the laity, it was a double offense. Conall was amused that Gwen didn’t appear to care. As always, the investigation was all. If Bishop Gregory hadn’t realized what calling in Gareth and Gwen entailed, he was learning it now.
Her question seemed to surprise Bishop Gregory, who understandably was entirely focused on the body, but he recovered after a moment and pointed to a bronze box on a little stand behind the altar. The greenish tinge aside, it had ornate carvings along its sides and had clearly been made by a master metalworker.
“The box contains our holy relic, a finger of Saint Patrick. Normally it is kept safe in a strongbox in the vestry. I don’t know how it came to be here.”
Gwen put a hand to her heart. “The relic is still in the box?”
“It is! After Harald’s pulse, it was the first thing I checked.”
Conall hadn’t known Bishop Gregory ever to lie, but he wouldn’t have put it past the bishop to have checked for the relic first. Dead body or not, monk or not, the holy relic was more valuable than any other possession—and more important to the Church than Harald’s death. To have the little chapel defiled and the relic lost would have been a crime beyond reckoning.
“Who was Harald, your Grace?” Conall asked. “To you or to your flock?”
Bishop Gregory’s expression showed regret. “Until today, I wouldn’t have said he was anybody important.” Then he put out a hasty hand, realizing how that had sounded. “He was of no more importance than any other man in the sight of God. As I said, as a monk, he worked primarily in the scriptorium.”
“You said his handwriting was beautiful,” Conall said. “Does that mean he was good at his job?”
“Very good. We have none other here to match hi
m. Maybe none in all Ireland, though I would not proclaim such a thing to my Irish brethren.”
“Was he well-liked?” Gwen asked.
“That I cannot tell you. I know each of the men here by name and face, but my duties preclude me from truly knowing many of them well, especially since so many are new to us and to Dublin. Harald came to us a few months ago with the other brothers of his order.”
“From where?” Gareth asked.
“Most of the monks are Danish, from small priories between here and Waterford. We do not have so many houses that any could afford to lose more than one or two to us. We asked for those who could be sent and then quested farther afield.” Bishop Gregory thought a moment. “I can tell you Harald was born in Dublin, but he found his calling in Denmark, and he was one of several who came to us from there. I suppose you could say his choice to join our number was a way to come home. His mother lives here still.” Bishop Gregory paused and said in an entirely flat tone. “I must inform her of her son’s death.”
“And he was a monk, not a priest?” Conall asked.
“Yes.”
“Inducted where?”
“In Ribe, having completed his studies there. He was one of the first of the Benedictines to arrive.”
“The wealth represented in the sword, not to mention the mail hauberk, marks him as a rich man. Do you have any idea how he might have acquired his gear?” Gareth asked.
“No.” Bishop Gregory wore his emotions on his face, and now he merely looked bewildered.
“You said at first that you discovered the body,” Gareth said. “Just you?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell us how it came about that you found him?” Gwen said.
“Of course.” He made a helpless gesture. “It was my usual time for prayers.”
“Usual in what sense?” Gareth said. “Are you normally in this chapel at this hour?”
“Yes.”
“Every day?” Gareth kept his eyes fixed on Bishop Gregory’s face.
“Every day I am in Dublin, yes.”
“How many other people would have entered the chapel before you today?”
“None.” Bishop Gregory coughed into his fist. “It is the innermost part of the Church. None of the other priests say their prayers in here.”
“In other words, you reserve it for your private use.” Conall tried to keep the judgment out of his tone.
By the gentle look Bishop Gregory gave him in reply, Conall was pretty certain he hadn’t succeeded. “I can see why it might appear that way to an outsider. But no one is forbidden to come here. Because the entrance is off the vestry, however, if a lay person wished to pray here, he would have to ask.”
“What about a servant or a monk responsible for cleaning?” Gwen said.
“None are charged with this chapel. As a reminder that I am a man like any other, I take it upon myself to sweep and dust every week.”
“Is that something most people would know?” Gwen finally turned away from the relic.
“I suppose.” Bishop Gregory was more tentative in this answer.
When neither Gareth nor Gwen chose to press him on the matter, Conall spoke again. “I suppose, Father, or yes.”
He still dithered. “I have to say yes.”
Conall didn’t have to ask the meaning of the look that passed between Gareth and Gwen behind Bishop Gregory’s back at this admission. It was their practice not to assume anything about an investigation so early in the day, but even Conall could see the reason the body was here at this hour was because whoever had laid poor Harald on the altar had intended him to be found by Bishop Gregory. It was a message, as Gwen had said.
Bishop Gregory realized it too, and he spoke with a mix of awe and grief in his voice. “Someone wanted me to find the body. Someone wanted me to see Harald like this. Someone wanted me to know, me personally, that he had defiled my church. The killer.”
“I would have to agree,” Gwen said. “That is, if Harald was, in fact, murdered.”
Chapter Four
Day One
Gwen
Gwen realized her statement was provocative the moment it came out of her mouth, but it was too late to take it back—and she didn’t want to anyway.
“What do you mean by that?” Bishop Gregory’s tone showed irritation. “Of course Harald was murdered. How else could he have ended up here?”
Gwen coughed discreetly into her fist. “I apologize, your Grace. My intent was to suggest we shouldn’t draw any conclusions as yet.”
“Harald was in the prime of his life! I saw him crossing the courtyard yesterday morning. He was as hale and hearty as any man.”
Gareth put out a hand, coming to Gwen’s rescue. “What Gwen means to say, your Grace, is that there is some question as to how Harald came to be lying on your altar, and until we discover how he died, we can’t make a judgement as to why.”
Bishop Gregory made another helpless gesture. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s just that he’s wearing armor, Father.” Gwen stepped closer. “And I can see from here that he wears a padded shirt under his mail.”
“Yes, I see that too. I understand that would be normal.”
“It is, your Grace. That’s the problem—” she looked at Gareth, helpless herself to explain and worried that the more she spoke, the more Bishop Gregory was closing his ears. She appreciated the fact that Godfrid loved and respected the bishop, but he was still a bishop and unused to listening to women.
Coming to her rescue again, Gareth lowered his voice in that commanding but understanding way he had. “I have worn mail most of my adult life. I have also cared for friends and foes who died in battle. It is a struggle to remove gear such as he wears from a dead man, but with help, it can be done. But to dress a man who is already dead—”
“I didn’t see it until now myself, your Grace, but I agree it is all but impossible.” Conall reached out a hand to lift the man’s arm.
Gwen had been tempted to do so herself, and would have if any more time had passed. But she could see from where she stood that the movement took effort, and the body was stiff with rigor. Though she chose not to speak the words out loud, everyone in the room but Bishop Gregory would know it put the time of death in the vicinity of twelve hours earlier. As it was just past noon now, that meant Harald had died near midnight or soon after.
Gareth was still looking into Bishop Gregory’s face. “My lord Conall is correct, your Grace.”
Gwen thought it safe to add, “To arm a man requires help. That’s why knights have squires.”
“My son, Llelo,” Gareth pointed to where Llelo stood quietly just inside the door, watching and waiting to be of assistance, as he’d learned to do, “aided me in the matter before our boat docked in Dublin.”
At Bishop Gregory’s glance towards him, Llelo straightened his spine and took up the tale. For a young man of lowly beginnings, he had spoken in the presence of more than one person of power, including Prince Henry himself. Gwen thought Gareth was wise to point Llelo out to Bishop Gregory, since the bishop would find it harder to argue with four people telling him what he didn’t want to hear, particularly when one was a clear-eyed young man with no stake in the proceedings.
“The gambeson lies close to the skin and has little stretch to it.” Llelo spoke with the authority of one who knew what he was talking about. “It is a struggle to get my father into it every morning, even with his active assistance. Now that I wear armor myself, we help each other.”
Bishop Gregory frowned. “Perhaps his gambeson is laced all the way up the back, like a woman’s dress.”
“It could be.” Llelo answered again. “But then the mail wouldn’t lie flat against the back, which is part of what makes our gear comfortable to wear all day and protective in the first place.”
“What are you saying?” Bishop Gregory’s eyes narrowed. “That Harald was alive when he put on this costume?”
“Yes,” Gwen said, finding she
couldn’t remain silent. “That is what we are saying.”
“But he didn’t place himself here! He couldn’t have!”
Gwen and Gareth exchanged a glance, and Gareth made a tiny motion with his hand, down by his right side, telling Gwen he would take care of this.
As Gwen had grown older, she was more impatient with not being listened to, but also more willing to let a slight go. She and Gareth were a team, and there was no shame in recognizing those moments when one or the other would do better questioning a suspect or witness.
Thus, Gareth gave Bishop Gregory’s outrage the moment of respect it deserved, before beginning to guide his thoughts again. “When were you last in this chapel, your Grace?”
“Last night, moments before I retired. We have just begun to keep monks’ hours here. I say mass morning and evening in the cathedral with the Benedictines, but I pray at noon and at bedtime here, leaving the other services to the prior of the monastery to lead.” Bishop Gregory made a motion with his head. “The transition from priests being the custodians of the cathedral to monks hasn’t been entirely smooth. Concessions have had to be made on all sides.”
It was an admission he didn’t have to make, but such was his apparent trust in them that he spoke without hesitation. Churchmen, as a rule, wouldn’t come to blows. In fact, Gwen had never witnessed such an occasion, nor heard of one. It was unusual, however, to have a prior, rather than an abbot, lead the monks at a monastery. It was the bishop’s job to appoint a monastery’s abbot, even as the bishop was overall head of the community, as he was here. Perhaps they were still working out the details of their new arrangement and this was part of the conflict he was referencing.
“What hour would that have been, your Grace?” Conall asked.
Bishop Gregory puffed out a breath. “Nine in the evening, or thereabouts.”
“Would there have been anyone in the church between then and dawn?” Gareth asked.
“Our brothers would have met for prayer after the midnight hour. As it is in the dark of night, the office would have been brief.” Bishop Gregory made a gesture, indicating the entrance to the chapel, and a man a few years younger than he stepped into the room. Gwen didn’t know how long he’d been hovering there and wasn’t pleased with herself for not noticing sooner.
The Irish Bride Page 3
