“Hard to say,” I said. “In my experience, murders are often solved by connecting two pieces of information that don’t seem related but which become crucial when you figure out how they’re connected.” One lie more or less wasn’t going to matter, so I continued, “One time we solved a murder because a girl said the dead man’s dog hadn’t barked all night.”
The thane looked at me in confusion, so I hurriedly continued. “Unbelievable, right? That a dog’s silence could end up solving a murder? But now you see how information that seems random and insignificant can turn out to be enormously important.”
I could tell from his eyes that he did not see this at all, but also that he was willing to let me continue.
“What I was thinking is . . .” I realized I was going to have to lift one corner of the blanket I’d thrown over my disagreement with Winston in order to maintain my credibility. “Isn’t it most likely that your son was killed by a nobleman?”
Delwyn flung up his hand in anger.
“I paid off all the farmers whose women he’d molested. But he was wise, that boy, and steered clear of noblemen’s women. So, no. And I remember your thoughts about Arnulf’s death.”
I stared at him, uncomprehending.
“That he was stabbed with a knife, so my men and I were cleared of the charge.”
Which was true. Darwyn had also been killed by a knife. Was Alfilda right? No, I decided. Everyone carries a knife. A nobleman who’s trying to hide his crime might keep his sword in his sheath and attack with his knife.
And the same was true of whoever killed Arnulf.
With some effort I managed to keep my face calm so as not to give anything away. I’d grasped at the right end this time. Both men had been killed by a nobleman, one who knew how to hide his crime.
“Maybe I was wrong about the knife,” I said, as calmly as I could.
Delwyn’s head whipped up. “Are you accusing me of killing the farmer after all?” he asked.
I shook my head and soothed him, “Then we’d be dealing with two killers, because you certainly didn’t kill your own son.”
He hissed in irritation.
“Well, I’m sorry,” I said, “but that’s how it is.”
He glared at me and said, “Do you think there are two culprits?”
I looked him in the eye and shook my head.
“So, we’re looking for a nobleman.” I straightened up to give my words and myself more weight. “Who?”
He thought it over. For a long time. I could see from his face that he believed me.
“No one comes to mind. My son didn’t have any enemies.”
Aside from an unknown number of farmers, but I didn’t say that out loud.
“And you?” I asked.
“Me?”
“Who are your enemies?”
After slowly shaking his head, he said, “No one who would strike like that.”
There was no way he could know that. Men try to take revenge in strange ways.
“Someone who didn’t dare stand up to you, but wanted to hit you through your son.” I took a deep breath and decided to take the plunge. “Someone who is powerful enough to dare to do it.”
His eyes emptied of expression and when they took on some liveliness again, he leaned forward and said, “Thorkell?”
My response was silence.
“No.” He shook his head. “The jarl has no reason to want me to suffer. I never withhold men or money when it’s needed. I come when he orders and remain until he grants his army leave to go home.”
Not a word about underhanded dealings. Either he was wiser than I’d thought, or he had no knowledge of any deviousness by the jarl. If the first were the case, I realized, another powerful man might be behind the murders. But I didn’t dare mention Cnut’s name in this context.
I mulled over a thought that was so audacious I wasn’t sure I dared to express it and instead raised my chalice, drank, and then decided if I didn’t ask the question, I would regret it later.
“Your son’s appetite for women,” I began cautiously.
He interrupted me. “Haven’t we discussed that enough?”
“What did your wife think about that?”
The thane raised himself halfway up in his seat, then sank back down. “Darwyn’s mother died five years ago.”
No hint about whether he had taken a new wife, so I was forced to pry.
“It’s not easy for a man to live alone.”
I saw him clench his fists. He understood where I was going with this. His voice was hoarse when he responded. “Unlike my son, I have never taken a woman against her will, so you can spare yourself your current line of deliberations.”
So the son wasn’t killed to frighten the father from acting like him.
“Your daughter, then? How did she view Darwyn?”
I’d overstepped the line, or perhaps Delwyn had had enough for other reasons. He stood up so suddenly that the little table next to him tipped over and the ewer and chalice clattered to the floor.
“Bring me my son’s murderer,” he commanded.
I remained seated, hoping my calmness would convince him to sit down again.
Sven’s grip on my shoulder was as hard as before. He pulled me up. I kept my eyes locked on the thane, who stared back, enraged. I relaxed my muscles and jumped when I felt Sven’s grasp loosen.
Without a word to Sven or anyone else in the hall I walked toward the door with as much decorum as was possible.
One Trail
29
The clouds had come in while I’d been with the thane, and the first raindrops began to fall as I jostled my way through the crowd. A cold spring rain, no doubt longingly awaited by the farmers, made me pull my gambeson shut at the neck.
Had I learned anything?
I stopped by a pigsty surrounded by a wattle fence. The owner had likely claimed this piece of land from olden times since his pigs were now grunting around in the middle of market stalls, the closest of which belonged to a honey-cake baker. That baker was probably none too happy about his porky neighbors.
Delwyn had summoned me because he was understandably curious how far we’d gotten in determining who had murdered his son. Had I put him at ease? And had I learned anything useful myself?
Delwyn didn’t seem to be involved in any underhanded dealings among the nobility. He didn’t share his son’s proclivities to forcibly lie with women, but behaved dutifully toward the jarl and the king, whose man he was.
Was there anything in that? He hadn’t given his word to Thorkell, but that might have been because he mistrusted the man. Or maybe just saw through his power plays and chose to stick with Cnut.
And yet . . . His obvious pride at his daughter’s marriage to Jarl Thorkell’s trusted man spoke against this.
Was he simply the honest thane he seemed to be? A nobleman who added riches to power by looking after his own affairs and giving each superior what he was entitled to? A father, whose weakness was that he couldn’t keep his son in check?
The son . . . whose repeated offenses the father had paid for. Paid quite a price for, as I understood. Delwyn would rather cover the palm of a wronged man with silver than watch that same man walk away thirsting for revenge.
Because he had feared for his son’s life, of course.
I kicked at the wattle fence, which caused a fat sow to chew her food angrily at me, exposing her yellow teeth. I ran a finger around my collar to wipe away the raindrops that were tickling my skin.
It wasn’t noble-mindedness that made Delwyn pay—overpay—for his son’s offenses, but fear that the boy wasn’t up to tackling a man who was out for revenge.
And did Delwyn really know about all the men whose women his son had accosted? Wasn’t there a man walking around somewhere, pleased to have finally exacted his revenge? A man—a nobleman—whose holdings were perhaps not as great as Delwyn’s, and yet sizable enough that his duty to seek revenge ranked above his love of silver? A man who had sa
id no to the thane’s offer to pay him off?
No, Delwyn would have thought of that himself and the avenger would have felt his retribution. And Delwyn seemed confident that he knew all of the men who might conceivably take revenge. Darwyn hadn’t kept quiet about the women’s thighs he had opened by force. He had bragged about them outright.
Yet there could still be one the boy had failed to disclose.
I strolled along the fence to the honey-cake stall, and handed a square klippe coin to the toothless crone, who placed a sweet-smelling cake in my hand. Her awning extended over her stall counter, so I stood under it to get out of the rain while I munched on the cake, my back to the baker and the woman.
Someone who was so powerful that the lad didn’t dare boast about having abused his woman. I swallowed a crumb the wrong way and bent over coughing into my hand. This caused me to drop the rest of the honey cake in the dust below, which was slowly turning into mud from the rain.
Someone who was more powerful than Delwyn.
A man like that couldn’t be hard to find. There could hardly be more than a handful of noblemen in East Anglia who exceeded Thane Delwyn in riches—maybe five more who exceeded him in power. But all ten wouldn’t be in Thetford, so finding the ones who were seemed doable.
Then, a thought struck me.
Delwyn might not have been wrapped up in underhanded dealings, but what if Darwyn was? It’s been seen before that a young sapling, whose father obviously shields him from responsibility, pads his life of ease by participating in underhanded dealings, which the young man considers merely a way to pass the time.
He didn’t have any land yet or a title, Delwyn had said. A nobleman’s son generally received land and responsibility long before he reached the age of twenty, and Darwyn was at least twenty. By the time I was fifteen I was leading a platoon of my father’s soldiers, and only my father’s desire to ensure himself an heir should Harding fall had caused him to order me to stay home when the two of them rode alongside King Edmund Ironside to their deaths.
I pushed the thought away. I couldn’t see why Delwyn had prolonged his son’s puppy life, but I was convinced that the lad wasn’t maneuvering to gain power: his reputation as a rapist and violator of women would preclude that. What nobleman strategizing to increase his power would have trusted Darwyn?
Our killer had to be a thane, one so powerful that Darwyn hadn’t dared to brag about his exploits.
All I had to do now was convince Winston that this was the case and then find out which noblemen of that ilk were staying in Thetford.
With my head bowed to the now pouring rain, I headed toward the tavern so that I could find Winston as quickly as possible and move forward with the case.
People were scurrying away from the market. Those who could fit into the ale tents were crowding in there. Others hurried down the walkways and alleys, and if these had been congested before, people were now openly pushing and shoving to get through and out of the cold raindrops.
I cut across a little square I recognized not far from the tavern, rounded the corner of a market stall, and walked smack into a figure who had stood still so suddenly in front of me that I didn’t have a chance to stop.
Cursing, I reached out and grabbed the man’s arm to keep him from falling while using him to hold myself up in the slippery mud beneath my feet.
“Relax,” I said. The man turned to face me and I found myself staring into Winston’s face.
“You’re sure in a hurry!” he said.
“It’s raining, and I’m wet. Why did you stop?”
“To keep from falling.” Winston’s outstretched hand drew my attention to a rope that ran from the top of the tent down into the grass that was helping to hold up the stand.
We jogged on, reached the square in front of our inn, and got to the door at the same time. Winston darted inside just ahead of me.
The tavern smelled of wet clothes. The place was packed. Everyone seemed to be taking shelter from the rain. At a table right in front of the counter, I greeted Gertrude, Rowena, Bjarne, and Sigurd, who had just turned to look at the stairs where his father was coming down, chatting with Herward. The two farmers acknowledged us as we stood there dripping and then walked over to sit down at the table with the other villagers.
Alfilda came down the stairs behind the two farmers and went straight over to Winston.
Winston shook himself off, water splattering, and then strode purposefully across the room to a table by the wall, with Alfilda following. I loosened my belt, pulled my gambeson off, and shook some of the rain off it before following Winston. I wrapped my sword belt around my wet gambeson as I walked.
By the time I reached them, Winston had taken a seat with Alfilda next to him. I leaned my sword against the wall and the host came hurrying over to us with two steaming tankards, placing one in front of each of us and asking Alfilda if she also wanted something to warm her up. She politely declined.
We drank and I shivered, but since my shirt was as good as dry, I didn’t bother to go up to my room to grab a tunic to put on over it.
“Well?” Winston set down his tankard and gave me a look of encouragement. “Do you bring news?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve just come from Delwyn.”
“Delwyn?” Winston pursed his lips and scowled at me. “I thought I told you to talk to the farmers.” Then he gestured at a table behind me with his head and rather snidely said, “But perhaps you couldn’t find them?”
“I found Alwyn and I was talking to him, but I was interrupted and forcibly taken to see Delwyn.”
Winston leaned back against the wall and said, “Do tell.”
As usual they listened in silence to my report, which I made brief and yet as accurate as possible. I started with the axman grabbing me at the ale stand and ended by recounting the thoughts I’d had by the pigsty and the honey-cake stand.
“Hmm,” Winston said and then was quiet for a bit. He turned to Alfilda and said, “So you were wrong?”
Alfilda bit her lip and said, “Halfdan is onto something . . . something correct. His thoughts are clear and sensible. But they are thoughts, not evidence.”
I stood up from the bench in irritation, then sat down again, staring across the table at her. “Of course they’re thoughts. That’s how we work, Winston and me. We have yet to solve a murder case by having the murderer walk up to us and profess his guilt. We talk to people, listen to them, try to catch them contradicting themselves, and then we think.”
Winston hadn’t said anything during my tirade. Now he looked at Alfilda and said, “Halfdan is right. That’s how we work: try to find the details of the case and then gather them into a bigger picture.” He looked across the table at me. “You’ve done that well, Halfdan, and your thoughts are sensible and well worked through. But Alfilda is right. It’s not evidence. What do you plan to do now?”
I should have thought that was obvious.
“It can’t be that hard to identify the handful—at the most—of noblemen who are in Thetford and powerful enough that Darwyn didn’t dare tell his father that he’d committed an offense against one of them. After that it’s just a matter of tracking them and getting them to talk.”
“Good,” said Winston, tugging on his nose.
I stood up to begin my pursuit before Alfilda could get Winston thinking about something else, but he stopped me.
“You said you spoke to Alwyn. What about?”
I sat back down and recounted the conversation as carefully as I had just done for the conversation with Delwyn. They listened again in silence.
“So Alwyn was going to wait for you here?” Winston got up halfway from his seat and scanned the room. “He’s not here.”
I shrugged.
“He probably changed his mind.”
Alfilda had listened quietly for a long time, but now she leaned forward and said, “That would only make sense if what?”
I stared at her blankly.
“That woul
d only make sense if . . . that’s what you said Alwyn said.”
“Oh, right, but . . .” I’d actually forgotten all about that until I’d recounted my conversation with Alwyn to them.
“Why don’t you just find him before you head out? It’s still raining anyway.” Winston gave a decided nod as if that settled the matter.
I stood up crossly and looked around. Winston was right that there was no sign of Alwyn here in the tavern. I walked over to the farmers’ table. They were preoccupied with their conversation but looked up when I reached them and asked if they knew where Alwyn was.
“Alwyn?” They asked in a chorus, as they glanced at each other.
Herward glanced at Sigvald and said, “Didn’t Alwyn go out on his own this morning?”
Sigvald nodded and said, “I think so.”
“He was sitting here a little while ago,” said Bjarne, who pretty much otherwise never opened his mouth. “I suppose he went upstairs.”
I smiled at them. It was a bit late for a midday nap, but nap or no, my master had given me an order, and I was eager to complete it so that I could get back to following my trail. So I headed upstairs.
On the second floor I made my way to the farmers’ room, knocked, waited, and then knocked again. When there was still no answer, I pushed on the door, which wasn’t latched, and stepped into the room, which smelled faintly of ale. Then I cursed loudly, realizing that I had been following the wrong trail.
I stormed back downstairs to the tavern to tell my master—and his woman—that Alwyn lay dead in his bed, a bloody wound in his chest.
30
I stopped on the stairs and glared at the farmers, who were still jabbering away at their table. One of them had ruined my investigation, and I was in no mood to let the guilty party get away with it.
Sigvald noticed me staring at them and furrowed his brow at me in puzzlement, but when I just stood there, he went back to his conversation with Gertrude, who had her back to me. Sigurd and Rowena sat across from her, so absorbed in each other that I suspected you could stab a man to death in front of them and they wouldn’t notice.
A Man's Word (The King's Hounds series) Page 17
