The Viking Prince

by Sarah Woodbury

  “I noticed that you kept yourself well away.”

  “I’m going to have to speak to them. With Deirdre dead, they will be worried that something has happened to me too.”

  Godfrid pressed his lips together in a tight line, worried himself and knowing it would be best to choose his words carefully. He was perfectly happy to have her reverted to her normal state and would prefer that she never saw any of the other slave women again. He had been glad today, quite frankly, of the company. “It won’t be easy.”

  They were walking ten paces behind Holm and the body, and he slowed his steps further to ensure that none would overhear them.

  “I deceived them. It was only three weeks, but they treated me well and put a measure of trust in me. And all the while, I was living a lie.” She gestured to herself. “They will hate me when they discover I was someone else entirely.”

  “I’m sorry.” He canted his head. “Given how you feel now, is spying like you did here something you would choose to do again?”

  The answer took a while to come, which pleased him because it told him she was really considering his question. “It’s hard to say. I was thinking a moment ago that if I’d thought about the lying as having consequences, I would have been more guarded in my relations with the other women—and then I might not have achieved as much because they would have sensed that something was wrong and not have confided in me.”

  “We all make choices every day of our lives, and every choice has consequences. We’re lucky if we are able to see beyond the immediate effects.” He glanced at her again, sensing that she was back on a more even footing. “Your brother has the gift.”

  She laughed under her breath. “You don’t have to remind me that I should listen to him more in the future.”

  He put up a hand. “That wasn’t what I meant. I was simply pointing out that acknowledging another’s strengths does not diminish one’s own. I am not capable of doing what Conall does. That doesn’t mean I’m not capable of other things.”

  Cait turned her head to look up at him, surprise on her face. “No man of my acquaintance has ever admitted such a thing before. But you’re right, and I will keep it in mind the next time my instinct is to do the opposite of what my brother suggests simply because he suggests it.”

  “Worst case, you can see him as an asset, like a good hound,” Godfrid said. “You might even find he can be useful.”

  That made her laugh, as he meant it to. “I’m going to tell him you said that.”

  Before he could protest that she absolutely must not, they reached the church, where they were greeted by Bishop Gregory himself, flanked by two assistant priests, who had just come through the door to the sacristy. Godfrid found it interesting that Holm had chosen to send Rikard’s body to the seat of the bishop at Christ’s Church, located a stone’s throw from Ottar’s palace, when St. Audoen’s, located in the heart of the city, was closer. At the same time, it wasn’t a question Godfrid needed to ask with the bishop standing before him, and perhaps the decision said more about Holm and his perception of himself and Ottar than Rikard.

  “This is a sad day for Dublin.” Past fifty, though without a paunch or even much gray hair, Gregory was beloved throughout Dublin. He came across as kind and generous, but as a prince, Godfrid knew more. Gregory was the priest Godfrid most often went to for confession, and he was well aware of the strict sensibilities behind the genial manner.

  Then, as they got closer, Gregory’s eyes narrowed. “I thought ... I thought you already brought Rikard’s body to the laying out room?”

  According to Gareth, smaller churches often weren’t prepared to deal with caring for the dead, since in villages those tasks usually took place in the dead person’s home, managed by the dead person’s family. In a city such as Dublin, however, special arrangements were sometimes necessary, often enough that the enclave around the church had a space built to accommodate the washing of bodies.

  “We did.” As the ranking man of the group, Godfrid was the one to whom Gregory had chosen to speak, not Holm, who stood respectfully to one side. “This is a second body that was just found, that of a slave woman named Deirdre. She was murdered.”

  Gregory’s lips pinched, and his face grew a little paler than normal, but he nodded and gestured with his head that they should follow the path around the church. The two priests went ahead to show the way, and Godfrid gestured that everyone else should precede him. Christ’s Church wasn’t under the jurisdiction of a monastic order, but it was a large complex anyway, as it needed to be, with a dormitory for priests and the servants who looked after them, and the usual complement of kitchen, laundry, stables, and meeting rooms.

  As they walked together, Bishop Gregory put a hand on Godfrid’s arm, slowing him further. “This is a side of you I haven’t seen before, my son.”

  “Which side is that, Father?” he asked, thinking of Cait, whom Godfrid had introduced but not explained.

  “You are so serious and clearly on a quest for justice.” His hand was still on Godfrid’s arm, and he squeezed it. “Don’t get me wrong. I have known you since you were a child, and you have always sought to do what’s right. I know that, and I hope the penances I’ve given you over the years have reflected that understanding. But you seem different to me today.”

  Godfrid was almost afraid to look at him. Though Gregory had given him words of guidance over the years, he had never spoken so openly to him about Godfrid himself. Godfrid had often consulted with him, even when he felt his path to be clearly before his feet. The exception would be his maneuverings with Ottar, which Godfrid needed to keep between himself and Brodar. It would have been unfair to Gregory to expect him to take sides.

  For that first expedition to Wales at the behest of Cadwaladr, over a carafe of wine, the two of them had hashed out whether or not Godfrid should go. Godfrid had decided he needed to do it, if only because it was a quick way to gain wealth, which it had been. The majority of the cattle now grazing on Godfrid’s land were descendants of his share in the spoils, and the Church had benefitted as well, since every Dane had felt obligated to tithe in thanks for their good fortune.

  But Gregory had made him see that whichever course of action he chose couldn’t be for Godfrid’s own sake. It must also be in the service of his brother and as a representative of his father, and to show Ottar and his supporters that their family wasn’t weak. Had he known that other Danes were being paid to assassinate King Anarawd, Gregory might have suggested an alternate strategy.

  “I think I have been becoming different for a while,” Godfrid finally said.

  “We’ve both been too busy of late to share a cup.” Then Gregory paused, looking ahead to where the body was just entering the laying out room. “Know that whatever the outcome, whatever lies in store for you, you have my respect and my blessing.”

  Godfrid was more than a little touched, and he put a hand to his heart and bowed slightly from the waist. “Thank you, Father.”

  The small laying out room contained two tables, which was fortunate since Rikard’s body was already occupying one of them. Holm dismissed Finn’s workers and turned to look at Godfrid with an expression of distaste. “I was supposed to report to King Ottar an hour ago—”

  “Go.” Godfrid gestured towards the door. “Do your duty.”

  Holm’s stride wasn’t unseemly in its haste, but his steps were quick as he returned to the threshold. Then he hesitated in the doorway and looked back. “Would Lord Conall care to join me?” He looked around, as if noticing for the first time that he wasn’t there. “I haven’t seen him since this morning.”

  Godfrid didn’t know if he really had just noticed, or if it was a question intended to catch Godfrid in a lie.

  Cait spoke up. “He had a few matters of state to see to. He should be along shortly.”

  “Good. Good.” Holm didn’t necessarily sound convinced, but he wasn’t going to argue with Conall’s sister. “I will take my leave.”

 
With Holm gone, Cait moved to Deirdre’s body. “Shall I unwrap her?”

  “We both shall.” Godfrid peeled back the sacking from the woman’s face. Her eyes were closed, and she appeared peaceful in death, a truth belied by the red line around her throat and the bruising that accompanied it.

  He didn’t comment on it, since Cait was looking at the wound too. It was impossible not to notice it. In silence, they unwrapped the body, ultimately letting the wrappings drape off the table. When she died, Deirdre had been dressed for warmth, with a cloak around her shoulders. Her dress was finer than he would have expected for a slave, but then, she was a skilled weaver woman. She would have earned special status and special privileges.

  Godfrid found it difficult to look away from the bruises on her face. She also had bruising on her arms, some that appeared in the distinct shape of a thumb or finger, and welts around her wrists.

  Cait sighed. “The immediate implication is that she was beaten when she was alive.”

  He nodded. “I find it likely that it was she who was tied to that chair in the warehouse. Her broken nose could explain the blood on the front of her dress and on the floor of the warehouse. A bloody nose can produce a disconcerting amount of blood in a very short amount of time.” He made a small gesture with one hand. “Do you feel up to going through her clothing? I don’t know that I expect to find anything useful, but I know it’s something that Gareth and Gwen do every time, just in case.”

  “I can do that.”

  Godfrid then turned to Rikard. Whether because Holm had told them to or on their own initiative, the priests had arranged for someone to undress and wash Rikard’s body. He was now covered in a sheet, awaiting burial. Having him already undressed saved Godfrid time, but he knew Gareth would not have been pleased in case there had been something to discover in undressing Rikard himself. Godfrid couldn’t do anything about it now, so he folded back the sheet to reveal Rikard’s body to the waist. Twelve hours after his approximate time of death, the body was entirely stiff.

  Cait glanced over from where she still stood by Deirdre. “Was Rikard unwell?”

  Godfrid frowned as he looked down at the remains of his friend. “He is certainly thinner than I remember, but I don’t know if that’s just because he’s dead.” He bent forward to examine Rikard’s wrists, which showed no bruising, implying he had not been the one tied to the chair. A quick look under the sheet showed no other wounds or bruising anywhere else.

  Cait had her hand on Deirdre’s belly and appeared to be praying, her lips moving silently. When she was done, she looked up. “A small blessing.” She gave him a half-smile. “Deirdre was always one to poke her nose where it didn’t belong.”

  “You said earlier that she was a gossip. In what way?”

  “In every way. She was a slave her whole life, you know. She was never allowed a husband or family, so she took her amusement where she could.” Cait shrugged one shoulder. “And bestowed her love where she could.”

  “On you, for example?”

  “I was one of many.”

  “What about Rikard?” Godfrid’s thoughtful expression became more focused. “Did she love him?”

  Cait’s mouth fell open, as if the idea had never occurred to her.

  Godfrid looked rueful. “It has been known to happen. You and I were barely alive then, but Rikard may have been a very different person thirty years ago. Could she have gone to see him last night?”

  “If he and Deirdre were lovers, they wouldn’t have had to sneak around. He was her master. He could have had her any time he wanted.”

  “Did he? Ever have her, I mean.”

  Cait laughed mockingly. “She was his slave for forty years. Of course he took her to bed at one time or another.”

  “But recently?”

  “In the three weeks I was Rikard’s slave, I saw no sign of any relationship between them other than what was on the surface. If they were lovers, they gave no indication of it, and of course, Rikard had put out that I—” She stopped at the appalled look Godfrid couldn’t prevent from appearing on his face. She swallowed before continuing. “I must point out that I couldn’t watch all the time. I do need sleep.”

  “That the two of them were meeting could explain his desire for privacy.”

  Cait shook her head. “She was his slave. Who was there to protest or even care?”

  “Sanne?”

  Cait looked skeptical. “Sanne told Ragnhild that Rikard had a new mistress, namely me, and that she was upset about it, but is that the woman you know? Rikard wasn’t twenty and Deirdre was no maid. She belonged to him. He could do with her as he pleased. Besides, we both know how much Rikard liked younger women. If he and Deirdre were ever lovers, it was a long time ago.”

  “Rikard might have had his own reasons for wanting to keep his relationship with Deirdre a secret. It is one thing to enjoy women indiscriminately as a youth, but it is quite another as a man of sixty. Such interest is unseemly. And if she and Rikard were together last night, it would go some distance towards explaining why both ended up dead. A thief could have come upon them thinking the warehouse was empty and killed them when they discovered him stealing. I know what Ragnhild told you, but I’m still not convinced Sanne isn’t involved in Rikard’s death somehow.”

  “If she is, it isn’t in this way or for this reason. She was happy every night he didn’t ask for her, believe me.”

  Godfrid pressed his lips together, disconcerted by Cait’s certainty—and bitterness. He knew enough of her by now to understand its source, and he inwardly cursed her father and uncle for giving her to Niall. They were all fortunate that her marriage hadn’t worn her down so much that the light within her no longer shone. He could see now that Sanne’s light was dimmer than it should be. Perhaps she too could find new purpose now that Rikard was dead.

  “Besides,” Cait added, “I can’t really picture Sanne tying Deirdre to a chair and beating her, can you?

  “No.” Godfrid shook his head regretfully. “I suppose an accomplice is possible, but it all sounds needlessly complicated.”

  Cait tipped her head back and forth noncommittally. “Still, Deirdre didn’t strangle herself. What I can easily believe is that Rikard telling us that we weren’t to go near the warehouse last night had the opposite effect on Deirdre than he intended.”

  “She would disobey him like that?”

  Cait laughed. “Deirdre would do far worse for a bit of gossip.”

  Then someone cleared his throat behind them, and they both turned to see Conall in the doorway. It had started to rain, darkening the sky behind him, against which Godfrid could see water dripping off the eaves. They had been so involved in their conversation that they had noticed neither the rain nor the footsteps on the flagstone pathway.

  Conall gestured to the bodies. “Cait—” The word came out somewhat despairing.

  She put out a hand to him in a gesture meant both to appease and forestall him. “I wasn’t going to be here. I swear it. But then we found Deirdre—” To speak her friend’s name caused Cait to choke up again, and she made her way to her brother, who wrapped his arms around her. He softened towards his sister, but he looked daggers at Godfrid over the top of Cait’s head.

  Godfrid let out a breath, knowing he needed to explain, but somehow unable to muster up a proper excuse. “We have been beset here.”

  “Then it’s probably a good thing I brought more help.” Conall waved a hand, motioning someone forward, and another familiar shape darkened the doorway.

  “Abbot Rhys!” Godfrid bounded towards the door. If the moment of intimacy with Cait had to be broken, it couldn’t have been at the behest of a better man. “I am so glad to see you!” He spoke in Welsh.

  Abbot Rhys answered in Danish, a language he had apparently acquired in a matter of weeks. “I arrived in the city just now and was astounded to hear of these deaths and that you were charged with discovering the murderer. Of course I had to come find you. Well met both of you.”
He looked from Conall to Godfrid. “I’m beginning to think it is more than mere coincidence that I returned to Dublin on this day of all days. God has guided my steps, as He always does. I think I can help you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Day One

  Conall

  “Don’t lecture me, Conall,” Cait said. “I’d rather not fight just now.”

  Conall eyed her for a moment, and then he nodded. “It has been a long day. While we wait for Godfrid and the abbot, tell me what you’ve been up to. Have you discovered yet how Rikard died?”

  “Sadly, no.”

  By the time Cait was done with her narrative, Godfrid and the unexpected Abbot Rhys had finished the examination of the bodies, and the four of them walked through the darkened and nearly empty streets to Conall’s home.

  After their very public fight earlier in the day, he and Godfrid hadn’t been seen together, and it wouldn’t do for them to appear too friendly now. Conall half-wished he hadn’t stopped by his house before seeking them out in order to change his garb from Fergus to Conall. He’d been stuck, however, in that he didn’t want anyone to know about Fergus, which meant he couldn’t show up at the church dressed like a sailor and ask for Godfrid.

  With Cait and Abbot Rhys accompanying them, Conall hoped they could brazen out any questions from people who looked too closely. The time when their animosity towards one another was useful was coming to a close anyway.

  His house was located a short distance from the palace and was very much a single man’s home, plain in its furnishings but far too large for one person. Conall had only three servants, a husband and wife couple and their daughter, because he didn’t like the fuss of anything more complicated. The house’s former owner had died last year with no heirs, and Conall had been on hand to take over the house (with Ottar’s permission). For a few days, the daughter, Bláthin, could act as a lady’s maid, but if Cait stayed with him for much longer, he would need to add to his staff.