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

by Martin Jensen

  At the end of the table closest to me, Bjarne and Herward were leaning together engrossed in conversation. Herward glanced up briefly at me and then returned his attention to his companion.

  One of them did it. Which one?

  I thought back. Did Alfilda know something that was hidden from me? Hardly. She’d been guessing, just like me. The only difference was that she’d guessed correctly.

  Winston noticed me standing there. He scrutinized me for a moment, then stiffened and stood halfway up. I nodded to him, turned, and walked back up the stairs without waiting for him to follow me.

  I stopped in front of the door. Winston and Alfilda caught up, wondering what was going on.

  “Would you look at this mess?” I said and pushed open the door.

  Alfilda used to run a tavern and she had probably seen her share of beaten-up men, goose eggs, and bloody noses. All the same, I heard her catch her breath, deeply shocked at the sight of the bloody figure on the bed.

  “Was that really necessary?” Winston asked glaring at me. I shrugged. I hadn’t asked her to come upstairs. If she wanted to be a part of our work, she ought to shoulder her share of the unpleasantries.

  “When?” Winston was leaning over the body. “Close the door.”

  I obeyed.

  “It’s hard to say.” I put a hand on the dead man’s forehead. “He’s cold, but the blood hasn’t congealed yet.”

  “Hmm.” He waved his fingers over the body a hand’s width above the chest. “One . . . two . . . five stab wounds. What about Arnulf?”

  “He was also stabbed several times.” I realized what that meant. I’d overlooked the fact that the killer didn’t know how to kill someone quickly and effectively.

  Noblemen, like myself, are trained killers. I wasn’t even ten before my father and Harding were forcing me around the training grounds. But trying in vain to fend off their blows taught me something more than just how to take a beating.

  Both of them showed me the right places to aim when stabbing an enemy’s body. They showed me where a sword’s blade should hit to slice deep into an artery, where to strike with an ax to crush bones and slice tendons and blood vessels.

  This killer did not know any of this. He stabbed at random, his knife sticking into the body multiple times to inflict as much damage as possible until the victim bled to death.

  Arnulf had been lying on his stomach, I remembered, with his hand clutching his right side. I looked at the cut in Alwyn’s throat, his hole-riddled shirt, and what was likely the final deadly stab up under the breastbone.

  I reassured myself that a wild, enraged man could have done this, unable to control himself, just stabbing and stabbing. Even a nobleman could snap like that.

  Before that thought had taken root and made me forgive myself for my own lack of insight, I realized how wrong it was.

  An out-of-control murderer would attack in a fit of rage, stabbing and jabbing, slicing and tearing.

  This killer had not done that. Arnulf’s throat was cut, and then he was stabbed through the tunic in multiple places before finally receiving the fatal blow, angled upward into his heart. That was the mark of an incompetent knife wielder, not a nobleman in a fit of uncontrollable rage. A nobleman would have known to stab deep and upward on the first thrust.

  Looking at Alwyn’s body, I saw the same thing. Five random jabs. One had struck his neck without cutting the artery, an error no man with weapons training would have made. A second thrust caught Alwyn in the shoulder, where it would surely have hurt, but would not have been life-threatening. The third blow had hit the upper right side of Alwyn’s abdomen, where I could see it had slashed his liver. The fourth and fifth stabs hit the right side of his chest. The one under his breastbone was deflected by his ribs, and the other went deep into the middle of his abdomen. This stab must have hit an artery, because the blood had gushed out of this wound with as much force as the slashed liver. It was hard to say which had killed him. My guess was that between the two cuts to his liver and abdomen, there had been a fatal loss of blood.

  The frustrating part of it from our perspective was that no artery had been cut. Blood had gushed but not splattered. It was possible that the killer could have avoided getting blood on himself.

  Aside from his hands, of course. I looked around. There was a shirt on the floor to the left of the bed. I picked it up and showed it in irritation to Winston. The killer had used it to wipe his hands.

  Alfilda hadn’t said anything since entering the room. I bit my lip, turned away from her, and glanced at Winston, who was still looking at the body. Then I realized there was no getting around it.

  “You were right the whole time,” I told Alfilda. The words stuck in my throat, but they had to be said. “It was one of his neighbors.”

  Alfilda gave me a look I couldn’t interpret, and then she put her hand on my arm. I didn’t try to shake it off.

  “I had my doubts,” she said, “until I saw this. What do we do?”

  Her question was directed at Winston, who didn’t seem to hear it. He was standing very still, his eyes half-closed. He tugged on his nose and then gave us both a look to indicate that we should be quiet.

  Some time passed. The only sound came from a fly buzzing over the dead man’s chest. Every time it settled, Alfilda chased it off with her hand.

  “For a long time I believed a nobleman was behind this.” Winston announced this so suddenly that both Alfilda and I jumped.

  “I don’t believe that,” I said, staring at him. I didn’t need him to try to smooth over my mistake.

  “Because I listened to Alfilda?” He gave me a penetrating look.

  I nodded.

  “You have often let me know what advice your brother gave you,” Winston said. “Now let me tell you one my mother told me: A wise hen has many nests.”

  Winston looked back at the body, and Alfilda chuckled.

  He smiled wryly at me and said, “Unlike you, Halfdan, I am aware that I make mistakes.”

  I was about to respond, but he held up his hand to stop me.

  “I finally realized this morning that Alfilda was right,” he said.

  I didn’t even try to tone down the skepticism in my face.

  “You’ve been letting me and Alfilda do all the work while you sit around on your hams with the coin makers,” I protested. “How is it that you were able to decide anything this morning?”

  Winston chuckled. “Sitting around on my hams? Indeed. I believe I already mentioned to you that the good coin makers are sources of knowledge, but perhaps you didn’t hear me?”

  I did not care for his mocking tone.

  “I believe I also mentioned that a steady stream of men comes through their workshop,” he continued. “And I even added that most of them are members of the aristocracy. But you see, Halfdan, when you’re dealing with noblemen, it’s often a good idea to question other noblemen. Which is just what I’ve been doing.

  “To be sure, I haven’t minded the admiration of Erwin Mintmaster or Harold, and I enjoyed being able to help them by offering them a couple of sketches of Cnut they can use if they someday become accomplished at converting drawings into the dies they use to mint the coins.

  “But my most important reason for cultivating my friendship with them was so I could—how to put this?—well, yes, sit around on my hams and let the information come to me.

  “The local nobility were extremely tired of Darwyn’s behavior, as I believe I mentioned before. Was one or more of them so tired that they decided to kill him to put an end to it? That was my idea, and I pursued it.”

  I raised my eyebrows, wondering if he was pulling my leg, but he appeared to be earnest. And then it occurred to me that I should have thought of that as well. I glanced at Alfilda and was relieved to see that she was as surprised by this as I was. At which point I couldn’t help but chuckle.

  They wondered why I was chuckling, so I explained, “So, we’ve each been following our own trail.”
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br />   They smiled, and I noted that Winston seemed relieved.

  “And that’s not a bad thing since one of the three trails led in the right direction.” Winston gave Alfilda an admiring look. “But believe me, Halfdan, I was just as uncertain as you while I was questioning all the noblemen who came through the workshop. Of course it had to be done tactfully so they didn’t suspect what I was really up to, but luckily tact is one of my strong suits, and I’m positive none of them suspected anything.

  “And this morning I was sure. None of the noblemen had knowledge of anyone taking matters into their own hands, let alone that Darwyn had even made the mistake of assaulting a nobleman’s woman.”

  I looked up, astonished.

  “I thought that if each of the three of us pursued our own trail, one of them would surely turn out to be the right one. Then when it turned out that the farmers wouldn’t talk to Alfilda, I had to send you down her trail.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but he beat me to it. “After all, I knew that your trail and my own went the same direction.”

  “You might have mentioned that,” I said.

  He slowly shook his head, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

  “We all have different things that motivate us to do our best. For you, it’s anger.”

  He had been provoking me on purpose! I felt a surge of that anger deep down, but then I realized he was right. My indignation at being told to pursue a trail that I believed was wrong instead of the one that I thought was right made me work harder.

  “Don’t make a habit of it,” I said.

  “Sometimes the horse should feel the whip, other times the spurs,” Winston said, holding his hands up as if to say what’s the big deal. “As if you never goad me.”

  He had a point, so I didn’t say anything.

  “What do we do now?” Alfilda asked.

  Winston raised his eyebrows at me and asked, “Sigvald?”

  “Or Herward,” I replied. “We agree it probably wasn’t Bjarne.”

  “Because he was here when Arnulf was killed?” Alfilda asked, scratching her arm. “But was he?” She waited until she had our full attention before continuing. “He was here when Arnulf went out. As far as I can remember, he sat down at a table with some other men. But how long did he stay?”

  “I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “I went out.”

  “But we stayed here.” Winston closed his eyes halfway. “I believe he was still sitting there when we went to bed.”

  “I think so, too,” Alfilda said. “But are we sure?”

  “Are you confident Arnulf was murdered in the evening?” Winston asked, eyeing me sharply.

  “As I said, his clothes were damp, but his back was dry. If he’d been killed in the morning, the dew would have wet his back as well.”

  “I’m quite sure Bjarne was here the whole evening,” Winston said and leaned against the wall. “And wouldn’t people have wondered what he was doing if he went out late at night?”

  “Men have been known to go out late at night,” Alfilda said with a faint snort.

  “A whore?” Winston said, nodding. “We won’t rule him out.”

  “We should inform them of Alwyn’s death, shouldn’t we?”

  Winston shook his head. “Let’s keep that to ourselves for as long as possible.” He suddenly looked up. “Sigvald shares this room with Alwyn, right?”

  I nodded and then suddenly remembered Arnulf had shared this room also.

  “With both of the dead men, Alwyn and Arnulf,” I said.

  “Hmm. Of course that could be significant. But at any rate, like I said, let’s keep this information to ourselves for a bit so we’re the only ones who know about it.”

  “It’s too late for that,” I said.

  Winston seemed puzzled, so I pointed out that the murderer also knew.

  “Of course,” he waved his hand in irritation. “Let’s get on with this.”

  31

  We’d just started down the stairs when we heard someone coming up. A quick glance revealed that it was Sigvald. He was huffing and puffing, gripping the railing, and it took him a minute before he noticed us and tipped his head back with difficulty so that he could see us. He was soused on the tavern’s good ale, and he was struggling to focus.

  I glanced at Winston, who nodded faintly and took a step back. Sigvald shook his head and again began his cumbersome climb toward us. We awaited him in silence.

  “Aren’t the stairs wide enough?” he asked once he reached us.

  Winston smiled politely and said, “Indeed, but we’d like a word with you.”

  “I need to lie down.”

  “But before that . . .” Winston began.

  Sigvald held his hand up in objection and grumbled, “Shut up. I’m going to bed.”

  “That will have to wait,” Winston said in the sharp voice of a man who wanted to be obeyed. “Halfdan!”

  I complied, grabbing hold of Sigvald and guiding him purposefully toward the next flight of stairs that led up to the top floor. He tried to resist, but his skinny body was no match for mine. I basically lifted him up and set him on the first step before loosening my grasp.

  “Would you like to walk on your own?” I asked him.

  In response he took a swing at me. Not a swing with any strength in it—aside from not having much of a build, he was also drunk—so I bobbed out of reach, grabbed his fist as it went by my face, and twisted his arm.

  He budged, cursed between his teeth, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t try to kick me. I put more strength into twisting his arm further, lifting him slightly. As his foot was about to come up off the step, he suddenly relented, and allowed me to lead him.

  Behind me I heard Winston whispering to Alfilda to stay by Alwyn’s door and make sure no one entered.

  “Call me if anyone tries to force their way in,” he told her before he came up the stairs behind me. It was easier going now that Sigvald was trundling along like a rag doll in my hands.

  Winston walked past us, opened the door to his and Alfilda’s room, and, with a sweep of his hand, gestured that I should enter first.

  The blankets on the bed were flung aside and bunched up against the wall, the sheet curled so that it was clear the activity that had most recently taken place there had not been sleep. I suddenly realized how long it had been since I’d thought about Brigit. The mere thought sent a warm rush to my loins, and I hoped it wouldn’t take us long to get the answers we needed.

  Sigvald was trying to wrench himself free from my grasp, and once Winston let the door slide shut behind him, I didn’t see any reason not to let him have his way. I let go of him and gave him a little push, which propelled him onto the bed.

  “I’m going to . . .” Sigvald began.

  “Answer a couple of questions, yes, you are,” Winston agreed, wadding up a blanket behind the farmer so that he could sit more comfortably. “And the faster this goes, the sooner you can go lie down.”

  Sigvald belched and muttered, “What’s going on?”

  Apparently we’d piqued his interest now. Or maybe he was afraid of being found out?

  I leaned against the wall, while Winston sat down on the foot of the bed.

  “You haven’t felt compelled to drink this much until now,” Winston remarked.

  Sigvald tried to look sternly at Winston, but made do with another burp as a response.

  “Is there any specific reason that you decided to keep drinking until you were drunk this afternoon?” Winston asked. He glanced at me, and I made a face to show that I’d wondered the same thing. For a man who’s not a soldier to kill another man is no small thing, and killers have been known before to try to drown their consciences and their crimes at the bottom of an ale keg.

  “What the . . . what the hell else was I supposed to do?” He asked. His voice wasn’t quite as slurred as it had been only a few moments before. “I mean . . . that shit reeve sure is keeping us here in his shit town for a shitting long time.�
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  I’ve noticed before that drinking often shrinks men’s vocabularies.

  “So you were drinking because you were bored?” Winston asked.

  “It’s good ale,” he said, tilting his head back and smiling.

  “I asked why you were drinking.”

  “I heard you.” Sigvald glanced slyly at Winston. “And I’m wondering why you’re so interested in why I drink.”

  Was he suddenly sober now? I knew Winston had had the same thought when he responded, “When a man who has acted for several days like an honest man suddenly starts drinking nonstop, it arouses my curiosity.”

  “Well, you can just put your curiosity away again.” Sigvald made to stand up. “I don’t have to explain my actions to you or anyone else.”

  Sigvald was halfway to his feet when Winston commanded, “Halfdan!” Sigvald glared at me.

  “I think you should sit back down again,” I said, smiling amiably, “and answer my master’s questions.”

  “Your master, right.” Sigvald sank back down onto the bed, but whereas before he’d been leaning back on the wad of blankets, now he sat stiffly upright. “You’re an odd thane to pick a man like him for a master.”

  I laughed and said, “It’s fine as long as one does what he wants.”

  Sigvald peered at us slyly and asked, “Could I get a tankard of ale?”

  I glanced at Winston, who didn’t say anything, so I responded, “Once you’ve answered my master’s questions, you can drink until dawn for all we care.”

  Sigvald sneered and retorted, “That’s not what I want. I’m just thirsty.”

  I knew that thirst. It always came when the buzz was about to wear off, and it made your throat as dry as a sandy beach in the middle of summer.

  Winston leaned forward slightly and asked, “So what have you been up to this afternoon, Sigvald?”

  Like Winston, I understood that we had to start with today. Any discussion of Darwyn or Arnulf’s murders would be pointless. There was a new crime, and that was what we had to focus on.

  “Drinking, as you so cleverly surmised all on your own.” Sigvald’s answer came willingly enough.