The Viking Prince

by Sarah Woodbury

  Chapter Fourteen

  Day One

  Caitriona

  Initially, Cait had risen from the table and made her way to the back of the house for no other reason than because she was bored by the conversation with Arno. She could tell from the first ten words he’d said that they were going to get only platitudes from him. And she knew from her time as a slave that the real workings of the house did not go on in the front room where the men lived, but in the servants’ quarters and among the women at the back. If she wanted any real conversation about what had happened to Rikard she needed to start there.

  It was obvious to Cait that Arno had cleared the hall in a hurry for his conversation with Godfrid, since whoever had been weaving this morning had left the shuttle incorrectly aligned with the warp threads that were already in place. Cait’s fingers itched to fix it, but she refrained, instead walking past the loom and pushing through the rear door. She found herself underneath a covered walkway that led to a large building. From the smells coming through the open doorway in front of her, it had to be the kitchen, and she followed her nose inside.

  The bustle of servants indicated that preparations for a late-afternoon meal were well underway. For that reason alone, Cait hesitated in the doorway, not wanting to get underfoot. But just at the moment she decided to back out of the kitchen entirely, a woman spoke in her ear from behind her. “I know who you are, and you won’t get away with it.”

  Startled, Cait turned to find a woman in her middle forties glaring at her. The fabric of the woman’s dress was finely woven, and her head covering was embroidered at the edges, so Cait knew the woman was of a high rank. Thus, she made a not-so-wild guess: “You must be Arno’s wife, Ragnhild. I am Lady Caitriona, sister to Lord Conall, the ambassador to Dublin from the court of Leinster.”

  The mouthful of names and titles tripped deliberately off Cait’s tongue. Ragnhild was known for her sharp wit and intelligence, and rumor had it that Arno’s success as a trader was due in part to his wife’s insight than his own more affable personality and efforts.

  Ragnhild blinked and stepped back, clearly having expected something else entirely to come out of Cait’s mouth. “So it’s true.” She bobbed a curtsey, her complexion red to her hairline.

  “Didn’t your servant tell you who I was?”

  “She did, but I confess I didn’t believe her.”

  “You thought Prince Godfrid would lie?”

  “No, of course not, but with Lord Conall away in Leinster, it seemed impossible that you could be who you said you were. Sanne felt for certain that her husband had a new mistress, and she described a woman she’d seen near the warehouse who looked very much like you. All of Dublin has seen you walking with Prince Godfrid, and I was going to chastise you for taking advantage of poor Rikard’s death to deceive our prince.”

  The last comment was said with what sounded like hurt in her voice, and Cait’s expression softened. She put a hand under Ragnhild’s elbow and guided her out of the kitchen and back under the walkway. Anything they said to each other would likely follow the news of her identity all around Dublin, but she didn’t want it to be her doing. She couldn’t be angry at Sanne for telling people she was Rikard’s new mistress because that was the story he had put out. Thankfully, Sanne hadn’t told Ragnhild her name.

  Cait made sure to keep her gaze steady and spoke the truth. “My brother returned to the city this morning, and I am astonished than anyone would confuse me for Rikard’s mistress.”

  “M-my lady. I apologize. I-I—”

  Cait waved a hand dismissively. “I forgive you. I heard the concern in your voice for both your husband and the prince. As it is, perhaps you can help me. Prince Godfrid is charged with discovering how and why Rikard died, along with Sheriff Holm, of course.”

  “Holm.” Ragnhild scoffed, though this time not at Cait. “The man couldn’t see a cat scratching his face.” She gave a shake of her head and, in an instant, transformed into the intelligent businesswoman Cait had heard her to be. “If he is leading the investigation into Rikard’s death, then it will go nowhere. No wonder the king asked Prince Godfrid to step in.”

  Cait found her brow furrowing. “Why did Ottar appoint Holm as sheriff if he didn’t trust him with something as important as an unexplained death? That’s a sheriff’s job, isn’t it?”

  “Holm is Sturla’s man, or at least he campaigned for his appointment.” Ragnhild tsked. “What can I do to help?”

  “Rikard was meeting someone alone last night at the warehouse. Do you have any idea who that could have been?”

  “His mistress,” Ragnhild said promptly.

  “We have no evidence that he had one.”

  “You’ll have to ask Sanne about that.”

  “Let’s say it had something to do with his business. Have you heard anything about a rival or an enemy who might have wanted him dead?”

  “There’s always Thorfin Ragnarson. You’ve spoken to him, of course.”

  Cait didn’t answer her question. “Why him specifically? He’s Sanne’s father.”

  “Arno acquired a contract recently.” Ragnhild’s eyes glinted. “We are all very pleased by it—all of us except Thorfin, of course, whose nose is quite out of joint. He wanted that contract in hopes that it would be lucrative enough to pay off his debts, which are substantial.”

  “Nobody has mentioned debts,” Cait said. “Substantial how?”

  “You’ll have to ask him, but he lost three ships this spring alone. He had to borrow to replace them and the goods they were carrying. A month ago he accused Rikard of ordering his men to attack his ships. It’s ridiculous, of course, but fear makes men do and think absurd things.”

  It was also a real motive for murder.

  “I can guess why murdering Rikard would help. But why do you think so?”

  “Obviously, with Rikard dead, the attacks would stop and, as Sanne’s father, he would have a very good chance of taking over Rikard’s business.” She sneered. “Well, that was before Finn arrived.” She paused. “It really is Finn?”

  “Yes.” But Cait thought back to her conversation with Godfrid about making assumptions and wondered if they were right to assume it.

  Ragnhild looked Cait up and down in an appraising way. “May I ask, my lady, why your dress is so worn? You can understand why I mistook who you were.”

  Cait coughed into her fist to give herself time to improvise. “My trunk with all my clothing fell in a river that was running high as we forded it. This belonged to one of my servants. Making dresses takes time, and my brother was not prepared to redo my wardrobe on the day I arrived at his house.”

  “Oh that is so awful! All your beautiful dresses.” Ragnhild put out a hand to her. “May I offer assistance, my lady?”

  Bemused, Cait followed Ragnhild up a set of stairs on the outside of the house. They led to a doorway that allowed them to enter the loft without going into the main room. Below them, the men were still talking at the table, though as she peered down at them, Arno rose to his feet in something of a hurry and, after a few words to Godfrid, departed. Godfrid looked up at her, eyebrows raised, and Cait held up one finger, hoping he’d understand that she meant for him to wait for her. Being in Ragnhild’s company was akin to being swept up in a storm at sea. Cait could fight the way the current was taking her, but she’d probably survive much better if she followed it.

  Ragnhild bustled around this section of the loft, laying out underclothing as well as a new dress. Cait wanted to ask more about Rikard, but she was uncertain how to frame a question in such a way that it would appear casual and not too prying.

  In the end, she didn’t have to ask anything at all, because Ragnhild was way ahead of her. “Sanne didn’t kill Rikard, you know. Nor my Arno.”

  Cait drew in a breath. “Didn’t she? How can you be certain?”

  Ragnhild turned to look at her, an ornate veil for Cait’s hair in her hand. “Did you speak with her?”

  Cait n
odded, and Ragnhild continued, “Sanne is an unhappy woman, not in love with her husband, but without the fortitude necessary for something like this.” Then her eyes narrowed. “But you knew that.”

  “I noted immediately that she doesn’t like to get her hands dirty.”

  Ragnhild laughed. “No, she does not. She even sent Marta to one of Rikard’s slaves to learn to weave, Deirdre wasn’t it?”

  Cait didn’t correct her, just smiled.

  Ragnhild smiled back with satisfaction. “And my Arno could never hurt Rikard. He was not built for the day-to-day oversight of the warehouse. Who is he going to get to do it now? Finn?” She scoffed.

  It was in Cait’s head that Ragnhild would make an excellent warehouse overseer, and might be just the person for the job. “I’m surprised Finn hasn’t come around to see you yet.”

  “He’s afraid, for good reason.” Ragnhild shot another amused look at Cait. “You don’t know this story?”

  Warily, Cait shook her head.

  Ragnhild moved to undo the lacing at the back of Cait’s dress and now spoke from behind her. “He wasn’t supposed to go to sea on that journey.” She paused, obviously enjoying the drawing out of the story.

  Cait turned slightly to look over her shoulder at Ragnhild and obliged with the requisite question. “What? Why not?”

  “That night would have been the signing ceremony for the betrothal papers of Finn to my Birgitta. He snuck aboard his brother’s boat and sailed with the morning tide instead. We didn’t realize this at first, of course, not until many hours after the ship had departed.”

  Cait looked down at her feet, smiling slightly. She might have done the same before her betrothal had she been a man. “He didn’t love Birgitta?”

  Ragnhild scoffed again. “Love? Of course he loved her. They’d known each other since infancy. It was marriage he didn’t love. He wanted adventure first.”

  “He got it,” Cait said as Ragnhild came around to the front to help Cait step into her new dress. “Where is Birgitta now?”

  Ragnhild’s eyes took on a faraway look. “Visiting her sister during her lying in.”

  “Not married yet?”

  Instead of answering, Ragnhild tied the strings of the new dress and stepped back. “There.”

  Cait knew avoidance when she saw it, but since it didn’t pertain to the investigation, she didn’t pursue what was none of her business. “Thank you. I am overwhelmed by your generosity.”

  Ragnhild beamed. “It is my pleasure.” Then she leaned in and said conspiratorially, “I had the dress made for my elder daughter, but she is far too fat now to ever wear it again. As am I.” She grinned as she patted her own belly. “And red is a terrible color for Birgitta. It looks much better on you.”

  A few moments later, Godfrid watched wordlessly as Cait descended the stairs, but his eyes told her that Ragnhild had been right about the dress. Ragnhild followed with Godfrid’s own cloak over her arm, which she handed to him. “I don’t think she needs this anymore.”

  Godfrid took it. “I would have to agree.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Day One

  Godfrid

  “It has been a very difficult day.”

  Cait put her hand on her belly, frowning. “I don’t know that I’ve eaten properly even once.”

  Godfrid’s stomach growled at the mention of food. He’d had wine several times, but otherwise only bread and cheese, hastily eaten before he left his house that morning. Arno had neglected to feed him. “We should get something now, don’t you think?”

  But Cait and Godfrid had gone hardly more than three steps from Arno’s house when Jon, Godfrid’s captain, skidded to a halt in front of them. “We have found another body, my lord.”

  “Where?” Godfrid said.

  “One street over from the warehouse. It belongs to a woman, and several of Rikard’s slaves have identified her as Deirdre.”

  Cait’s hands went to her mouth. “No!”

  Godfrid looked down at her. “Who’s Deirdre?”

  “A fellow weaver and an incurable gossip. And my friend.”

  Godfrid’s arm came around Cait’s shoulders, even as he looked to Jon. “Take us to her.” They set off at a rapid clip. “She slept in the barracks as you did?”

  “She did.” Tears were running down Cait’s cheeks.

  Godfrid tried to speak gently. “But not with you?”

  “My pallet is closest to the stairs. She is the most senior slave, so she had her own small space with a curtain at the back.”

  “You didn’t look for her this morning?”

  “I would have had to step over the other women to reach her. That pool of wine put her whereabouts out of my mind.”

  Godfrid could feel Cait’s anxiety, and he took her right hand while keeping his left arm around her shoulders. “I didn’t mean to offend. It was a genuine question.”

  “I know.” The words came out a wail. Tears she hadn’t shed for Rikard were streaking down her cheeks. “I thought of her on and off all day, but with one thing and another, I never went to look for her.”

  The walk was distressingly short, though Cait gained control of herself in the last few blocks before the warehouse, to the point that she was no longer openly weeping. She agreed to stand back as Godfrid approached the alleyway to which Jon led them. A long bundle wrapped in hemp sacking had been pushed up against the warehouse wall. On another day, the bundle could have been anything, but it was body-shaped, and a hand had come loose from the wrappings and lay palm-up on the ground.

  While Godfrid was not pleased to have another body on his hands, and he felt sorry for Cait, who remained by the corner of the street and the alleyway, white-faced and weepy, he couldn’t help but think its appearance was clarifying to the investigation. Deirdre clearly had been murdered.

  Holm crouched by the body and gingerly peeled back the hemp sacking. “Why on earth did you bring Lord Conall’s sister to a crime scene?”

  “Perhaps you haven’t met very many Irish women, Holm, but when one sets her mind to something, it is impossible to change her course. She wanted to come, and her brother was not available to dissuade her.”

  Holm pointed with his chin to the other end of the alley, where several women clustered. “They tell me that this is Rikard’s slave Deirdre.”

  “So Jon said.”

  The slaves were huddled with their arms around each other, sobbing openly. One was bent over with her arms wrapped around her waist. He found himself hating the sight of their collars, and his fingers itched to take the keys from his pocket and free each one, just as he’d done for Cait. One woman threw her apron over her face while another approached and fell to her knees beside Deirdre’s head. A third, middle-aged and smelling strongly of roasting pig, possibly having acquired some of the leftovers from last night for today's dinner, stood over the body. She was the only one not openly crying, but her eyes were full of sadness and pity.

  He glanced back to Cait. She was watching the slaves, but she didn’t approach. She was caught in her own deception, since now wasn’t the time to reveal to her friends that she was really Caitriona, niece of a king, and not a slave girl.

  Godfrid unwrapped the hemp coverings to reveal a middle-aged woman dressed in plain clothing and also wearing a slave collar. Her face was badly bruised, along with her neck, though the slave collar itself didn’t appear to have been the murder weapon. The red line around her neck was too thin, and as Godfrid bent to look, he saw strands in the wound where the rope that had killed her had broken the skin. His eyes narrowed to see them. To his eyes, they were of the same quality and color as the rope that had been coiled underneath the chair in Rikard’s warehouse.

  “Strangled?” Holm asked.

  “So it seems.”

  Holm sighed and nodded. Then he straightened and began to shoo the gawking onlookers back down the alley, the weeping slaves among them. With Holm’s back turned, Godfrid gave in to impulse and pulled Rikard’s jumble
of keys from his pocket. With a twist of the wrist, he unlocked Deirdre’s collar.

  By the time Holm returned, Godfrid was on his feet with the keys back in his pocket and the collar held behind his back. He waggled it and was unsurprised a moment later to have warm hands take it from him. The extra squeeze they gave him afterwards told him, as he’d assumed, that it had been Cait.

  Holm lifted one arm. “She’s barely warm. The arm resists me more than Rikard’s did this morning.”

  “She’s been dead some twelve hours, by my guess.”

  “That’s not a guess. That’s a certainty.” Holm nodded. “Like Rikard, she died after midnight, maybe several hours earlier than her master, though we won’t know for certain until we compare the bodies side by side.”

  “To that end, it’s probably best that we don’t do anything more with her here,” Godfrid said.

  Holm waved a hand, and four of Finn’s workers sprang into action. One even found a section of an old door that was also cluttering the alley, and they loaded the body onto it. “Take her to the church, same as Rikard.”

  “I’ll come with you this time.” Godfrid stepped back towards Cait to allow the men more room in the narrow alley.

  Meanwhile, Cait had mastered her tears. “Should I come too?” She kept her voice low so it wouldn’t carry. “She was my friend.”

  Godfrid looked down at her. “I won’t tell you no, though I’m not sure what your brother would say about it.”

  “He isn’t here, and it isn’t as if I haven’t washed a body before and prepared it for burial. I did that service for my husband. I can do it for Deirdre.”

  He eyed her. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  “It’s Deirdre,” she said simply. “She needs a friend.”

  Godfrid rather thought that, if what the Church said was true, Deirdre was well beyond needing any of them, but he certainly wasn’t going to say as much to Cait. The Dublin Danes had been Christian for two hundred years, but Godfrid still perceived heaven to be a place of feasting and levity rather than the more solemn land of piety of which the priests spoke. It was actually comforting to know that Deirdre now knew the truth, and he was about to say as much to Cait when she spoke again. “It was terrible not to be able to greet the other women.”