A Man's Word (The King's Hounds series)

by Martin Jensen

  He moistened his lips with his fleshy tongue. He cleared his throat and then yelled in a voice that I suppose he meant to sound commanding that they should open up since he had made sure I came in peace.

  I grinned at him, feeling superior, and then saw the door open. First just a crack, then far enough that I could squeeze my way in.

  It was very dark inside. The hearth glowed gray in the middle of the hall and confirmed my thought that the fire was being fed with bad wood and damp peat. I could make out a few silhouettes behind it, but the woman of the house did not come around the fire to bid me welcome.

  I walked toward the embers, stopped a few paces away from them, and demanded that the fire be fed so that I could see who I was talking to.

  My words were met with silence and then I heard a faint “Do it,” followed by footsteps. I stood in silence for a few minutes, and then heard footsteps again. The fire was fed with a bundle of twigs and flared up. Then the flames subsided again as a few unsplit logs were placed on top, but soon they were burning with a quiet gleam that lit the middle of the hall.

  I looked at Arnulf’s wife for the first time. During our visit she had mostly stayed among the slaves and servants and only been with us briefly when she had ale brought out to the other farmers. She was a strong-looking woman with solid arms and a neck that could have fit on a bull calf. Her face was strangely narrow for such a muscular woman. She had pleasant features and smooth skin. She wore her blonde hair up and her blue eyes were bright.

  I looked at the slave girl by her side. She was as pretty as she had been the first time I saw her, clean, with nice, albeit worn, clothes. She seemed unafraid, looking directly at me, her gray eyes containing a twinkle of mild challenge, as if she wanted me to question why a slave wench was being so free. In actuality, that mystery didn’t concern me.

  I bowed my head to the lady of the house and waited until she had returned my greeting.

  “I’m Halfdan, and I bring news from Thetford,” I announced.

  I suppose she’d guessed that much. I couldn’t say whether she’d also guessed that it was bad news, but her response to my next statement surprised me.

  “Bad news,” I said, softening my tone. “Arnulf is dead.”

  Her face, which was actually lovely, winced. From grief, I thought, before I saw the glint in her eyes. Relief or outright joy glimmered at me. What she did next took me so aback that my jaw actually dropped.

  Arnulf’s widow turned and embraced the slave girl, who then buried her face in the woman’s ample bosom. They stood like that for a while, then let go of each other and turned to me. They both looked jubilant.

  “Dead, you say,” the widow said, holding out her hand to the slave girl, who grasped it.

  I nodded, speechless. Then I pulled myself together.

  “Murdered.”

  The woman’s eyes widened a bit, otherwise her expression didn’t change. Nor did the joy she had been radiating since hearing my news.

  “And his case?” Her voice was casual.

  Again I stood mute with surprise.

  “Did he win it?” she inquired.

  I shook my head, cleared my throat, and replied, “No. Darwyn had his own witness.”

  “He must have been crushed,” the widow said, smiling broadly now.

  I tried to catch the slave girl’s eye. I succeeded and read the same gloating pleasure in it as in the widow’s face.

  “He . . . wasn’t happy about it,” I said.

  “We can imagine,” the slave girl said, opening her mouth for the first time. She had a pleasant voice.

  “Mistress,” I said, rubbing the back of my head in consternation. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Arnulf is dead,” she said, nodding. “Murdered. Yes, I heard.”

  She suddenly turned and yelled through the hall. “This is my farm now and my hall. Fetch more wood and torches. Let’s have some ale and food for the man who brought us these tidings!”

  As I stood there, still flummoxed, there was a commotion in the hall. A slave brought over trestles, which had been by the bench along the wall, and placed planks on top to form a table. The slaves brought pitchers of ale, tankards, dishes of cold roast meat, a basket of bread, and a clay cask surrounded by small cups.

  I grabbed a slave’s arm as he passed and instructed him to look after my gelding, which didn’t take him long, because he stepped back into the hall again soon after.

  “Sit,” the widow said, gesturing invitingly with her hand. I sat down silently on the bench, where I was soon joined by two of the farmhands, who remained silent, as if they had lost the power of speech.

  The lady of the house pushed a chair without armrests up to the table across from me and signaled to the slave girl, who grabbed a stool and sat down beside her mistress without further ado.

  The farm girls sat down at the short ends of the table with the slaves who had brought everything in.

  The lady of the house stood up, took a tankard, filled it, and handed it to me before she poured ale into several more tankards, which were pushed across to the farmhands and slaves. Finally she poured mead from the clay cask into the small cups, which she placed in front of the girls and the slave wench.

  When everyone had a full cup, she raised her own and drank to us. First to me, looking me in the eye, then the others. We raised our glasses back to her, and then I set down my tankard. As I looked around the table, I thought I was beginning to understand.

  “My lady, I’ve given you my name. Might I know yours?”

  “Gertrude Arnul . . .” She paused. “I’m the widow Gertrude.”

  I looked over at her slave and asked, “And you?”

  “Rowena.” The girl revealed an astonishingly complete mouthful of teeth.

  One of the men pushed a bread basket toward me. I gratefully accepted it and a slice of pork, but held off on biting into the food.

  “In addition to your husband, another man also lost his life in Thetford,” I said, then paused until I had the woman’s full attention. I briefly recounted the Hundred Court and the subsequent murder of Darwyn, to which she listened calmly.

  I let my words sink in before I summarized. “Two men have been killed, one of them your own husband. But you don’t seem all that sorrowful, Lady Gertrude.”

  “Sorrowful?” she said with a smile. “Sorrowful at the loss of the most tightfisted man who ever suckled a woman? The greediest farmer in all of East Anglia? A man who begrudged us food, but gladly lavished hospitality on strangers, so they would ride off and spread the word about that friendly farmer Arnulf? Who counted every fire log, every hunk of peat, every bundle of twigs before he left for the court to go collect the fine for an injustice he should have avenged on his own? No, Halfdan, I will never feel sorrow for him.”

  She paused and looked around the hall, which was now lit by the fire and torches.

  “I will feel nothing but joy that everything he squirreled away will now provide for me in my widowhood.”

  I bit into the food. The meat was nicely stewed and fatty and the bread flavorful. I guessed that both came from the chest of things awaiting the master of the house’s return. The wench across from me wasn’t eating, but had drunk her cup of mead and now sat quietly, smiling, as if she had a secret that would soon be revealed to everyone.

  “Your master chose not to avenge you.” I couldn’t forget what I’d come to sniff around for.

  She looked me placidly in the eye, but a shadow fell over her face.

  “Arnulf valued silver over justice,” the slave girl said.

  I nodded and asked, “And that made you mad?”

  “Mad?” she replied with a look of scorn. “Slaves don’t feel mad. There’s no point.”

  Before I could respond, I heard the faint sound of hoofbeats. I looked around but seemed to be the only one who’d heard them. I let my left hand fall, grabbing the hilt of my sword and making sure it slid easily in its sheath.

  We ate and drank in
silence, and then someone pounded on the door.

  Without a word, I stood up, put a finger to my lips and then pointed to one of the farmhands, who got up and walked over to the door.

  “Wait,” I said, drawing my sword and taking up position to the left of the doorway so that the door would open away from me. Then I gave a go-ahead gesture and stood completely still as the farmhand swung the solid door open.

  I let the man come all the way into the hall before I stepped in behind him, moved my sword to his throat, and instructed him to stand completely still.

  He obeyed. One glance showed that he did not carry a sword. He must have left his spear outside.

  Over his shoulder I saw Rowena and Gertrude get up.

  “Turn around. Slowly!” I ordered.

  He obeyed and I found myself staring into Sigurd’s frightened face.

  17

  The boy was exhausted from the ride—it showed in the deep furrows at the corners of his mouth, the gray glint to his skin, and his weather-beaten, matte eyes.

  I also saw fear in his eyes. Not just fear at having been met with shining steel but also, undoubtedly, from the horror that comes from riding alone in the dark. Highwaymen can lurk behind any bush and around every bend in the path, and a lone rider is easy picking for scoundrels. Riding in the dark, it was often said, also brought danger from trolls and other supernatural, subterranean beings that lie in wait—beings against whom no sword could provide protection.

  Yet he’d gone off into the dark all the same, ignoring the reeve’s orders to remain in town. He had ridden through the darkness, which contained the risk of attack from ghouls as well as from others who might travel under the cloak of invisibility when it suited them.

  Behind the boy’s shoulder, I saw Rowena, and I had an inkling about the reason for his bravery.

  “Well met, Sigurd son of Sigvald.” I lowered my sword and stuck it back in its sheath. “You disobeyed the reeve’s orders.”

  He gulped, staring at me. He looked like he was struggling with all his might not to look at the slave wench.

  “He was pretty clear about his instructions, I think,” I pointed out.

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “Yes?” I encouraged him.

  “We thought we owed it to Gertrude to bring her the news of her husband’s death.” He was still gray, but there was some life in his eyes.

  “And so they selected you to ride back.” I nodded at him in recognition. “How kind of Turstan to grant you permission.”

  His mouth trembled and the strength left him so that he had to turn to Rowena, who was watching him wide-eyed.

  “Look at me,” I commanded. I know how to speak like someone who expects to be obeyed, which Harding always said was the prerequisite for anyone actually obeying you. “What is the penalty for disobeying the reeve’s orders?” I didn’t think it would be much. A fine maybe, but I wanted to put some fear into the man cub and continued, “Is he a harsh man, Turstan? Does he use the noose against farmers who cross him?”

  We both heard the little yelp from Rowena, but we continued our staring match, and I did not look away first. Now I had him where I wanted him, so it was time to give him what he’d come for.

  I looked at Gertrude and said, “Sigurd has ridden far and is tired and hungry.”

  Soon we were seated at the benches again. Rowena had squeezed in next to Sigurd, and while he hungrily shoveled in the food, she rested her hand on his arm and watched his face.

  I let him eat his fill. I swallowed my ale and contemplated how to approach the case. By the time he was mopping up the last bits with a crust of bread, I had decided, but I sat in silence for a moment longer watching Rowena, who looked back at me nervously while her hand slowly slid down Sigurd’s arm and found his hand.

  “And here I was thinking you were cautious.” I turned to Gertrude and explained, “As we rode away the other day, Sigurd was turning around in the saddle the whole time, looking back where we’d come from. Of course I thought he was making sure no highwaymen were following us, but it turns out robbers weren’t what he was actually looking for.”

  I’ll be darned if I didn’t see the little slave wench out of the corner of my eye. She looked pleased.

  “Was Arnulf aware of this?”

  Gertrude said, “Arnulf knew all about it. Those two haven’t been able to take their eyes off each other for several years.”

  She fell silent. She had just revealed to me that Darwyn’s rape had affected someone beside Rowena.

  I let that rest.

  “But Arnulf was opposed to the match?” I asked.

  Now Sigurd apparently felt it was up to him, as a man, to explain to me how everything fit together. “I asked to buy Rowena’s freedom a year ago.”

  “And Arnulf set the price high,” I said, able to guess what Arnulf would say to that.

  “Arnulf . . .” Sigurd paused.

  “Arnulf saw an opportunity to get some money out of Sigurd,” Gertrude said, sounding almost apologetic. Then her voice changed and she continued snidely, “As in every other matter, he let his hunger for silver be his guide.”

  I dropped the subject and addressed Sigurd again. “You could hardly afford to buy her freedom yourself. What did your father think about this?”

  “He . . .” Sigurd suddenly squeezed Rowena’s hand. “He refused to pay more than the usual price for a slave girl.”

  I looked at Rowena and then Sigurd, whose face had finally regained some color. Young people always find a way out when the road ahead is blocked, but before I managed to ask the question, I realized why these two hadn’t used it.

  “And what did he threaten if you bedded her?”

  Was that a blush I saw?

  Gertrude responded, “Arnulf made it clear that any child would be born into slavery and would therefore belong to him.”

  I had no doubt Arnulf would have sold an infant, and not just for the sake of the silver.

  “And,” the mistress of the house continued, “he would take the case to court for the rape of a slave girl.”

  I didn’t know the going price for a slave among the East Anglians, but I remembered that Arnulf had said the fine for raping a slave wench was sixty-five shillings, with additional compensation for her maidenhead. That was the fine Darwyn had sworn himself free of, and it might have been higher than the price Sigurd had been quoted for the wench.

  I turned back to Sigurd and asked, “What about your father? Was the amount of silver required to buy her freedom your father’s only objection to your having Rowena?”

  This time Rowena was the only one who blushed. In anger this time, I thought.

  “Not every farmer would welcome a slave wench as a daughter-in-law,” I pointed out.

  Sigurd fidgeted uneasily in his seat, but it was Gertrude who responded. “Welcome or not, he refused to pay too high a price. Especially,” she stammered, “after Rowena was assaulted.”

  And lost some of her value, both as a slave and a daughter-in-law.

  “There were no consequences from the rape?” I asked, looking at Rowena.

  “No,” she bowed her head in shame.

  So the crime had resulted only in the loss of her maidenhead.

  I bit my lip. Did they think I was too dumb to see that there was something they weren’t saying? I chose to let it go—for now.

  Instead I said, “The day before yesterday, after the court case, when Arnulf said that no pact or agreement could persist after the court’s ruling, you went pale as a corpse. I thought you shared Arnulf’s anger at the injustice that had been done. But that wasn’t it, was it?”

  Sigurd looked from Rowena to Gertrude, moistened his lips, and shook his head.

  “Arnulf had promised that after Darwyn had paid the fine, I could buy Rowena’s freedom for the standard price.”

  “And he broke that promise,” I surmised. “Did you talk to him after that?”

  Sigurd hesitated. Then he nodded.

 
“When Arnulf left the tavern, my father and I followed him.”

  So young Sigurd still needed his father’s support. I couldn’t begrudge him that.

  “And?”

  “He insisted on his inflated price,” he said, shaking his head.

  “And?” I repeated.

  He looked at me blankly.

  “So you followed him and stabbed him to death,” I provided.

  “No,” he leapt up so that the bench tipped over and Rowena with it. He reached down for her in confusion and after he pulled her to her feet, he clutched her to him and pulled her down onto the now-righted bench.

  “I didn’t,” he whispered into her hair.

  “Of course not,” she stroked his hair soothingly and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re not a murderer.”

  Not being in love with him, I was not as sure as she about that.

  Winston had sent me here to find out if the murders might have stemmed from something that happened in the village, and here I sat with a man who had more than good reason to kill both Darwyn and Arnulf.

  “You’re coming back to Thetford with me tomorrow,” I told him.

  Sigurd looked at me in terror, but neither his fear nor the look the slave wench gave me helped. I had to bring him to Winston so that, together, the two of us might wade through the lies.

  “You have a choice,” I said sternly. “You can come with me of your own free will and give me your word here and now that you will do so, or I’ll bring you to town bound with rope and twine.”

  “You wouldn’t do that,” Rowena said, looking at me with contempt.

  They didn’t even have a chance to blink. In one motion I was up on my feet with my sword drawn. I hammered my weapon down into the table so that it gouged into the wood.

  “Wouldn’t I?” I asked coldly, calmly staring into their horrified faces.

  “You,” I growled across the hall to a slave, who regarded me with a trembling mouth. “Bring me some rope. Now!”

  Rowena’s lips quivered. She stepped in front of her boyfriend, but backed down when I lunged slightly with my sword.

  “There is, of course, a third option,” I hissed bitingly. “I could deliver a dead murderer to Reeve Turstan.”