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Day Three
Godfrid
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While Cait had been meeting with Helga, Godfrid had been cooling his heels on the porch of the hall, having learned that Holm had been admitted some time ago, and by now had imparted his momentous news.
King Ottar had then spent a full hour in close consultation with his counselors and the leading men of Dublin. This was more normal than not since it was his responsibility to manage his kingdom. Almost daily, the king heard issues, complaints, and disputes from the various settlements of Danes throughout Ireland. Ships sailed in and out of Dublin every day, bringing goods and news from every corner of the world, and that too was digested and assessed over a lengthy morning meal.
Godfrid thought it just as well that he hadn’t been a participant in that initial conversation, since that meant they could now meet with Ottar with more information, thanks to Cait. The treaty had been left in Conall’s house with a guard standing over it, too precious a document to risk bringing into Ottar’s palace. The knowledge of it was dangerous enough, and Godfrid felt the weight of his secret as it settled next to all the other secrets he’d kept from Ottar over the years, chief among them being his own disloyalty.
Because Cait would not be welcomed in a conference with Ottar, Conall had taken her home (she was not pleased), and then returned. He now lounged in the porch alongside Godfrid, his shoulder propped against a side wall and his arms folded across his chest. No matter how he tried, Godfrid could never quite look as casual and nonchalant as Conall.
Fortunately, they didn’t have to wait long. Soon Sturla himself poked his head out the door of the hall. “The king will see you now.”
Godfrid, who’d been sitting on a bench near the door, pushed to his feet, but when he approached the entrance, Sturla put a hand on his arm. It was unlike Sturla to actually touch Godfrid, and Godfrid could almost feel the evil oozing out of the man’s fingers onto his skin. “I should warn you that the king is in no mood to hear more bad news, but if you have any, best to say it without delay and not pretty it up with fine words.”
“You know me, Sturla,” Godfrid said. “I do not have a silver tongue.”
Sturla scoffed. “You speak the truth.” Then he looked at Conall. “King Ottar will be particularly concerned about the response of Leinster to the news that Brega sent assassins to Dublin to murder our citizens.”
“Is that what they were?” Conall asked mildly, but then headed inside before Sturla could make an answer.
Godfrid wasn’t displeased at Conall’s rudeness, feigned or (as he suspected in this case) genuine. For his part, it was all he could do to remain polite. Perhaps overcompensating, he gestured magnanimously that Sturla should precede him, but as he strode down the length of the hall behind the steward, he could feel the battle lines being drawn. Godfrid didn’t take kindly to how easily Ottar plotted to murder his brother.
Unusually for the palace—and as evidence of the seriousness of the proceedings—the only occupied table was Ottar’s. Various lesser lords and notable merchants surrounded it, including Finn, Thorfin, and Arno, all three of whom seemed to be getting along better than Godfrid would have expected, given the private conversations he and Conall had conducted with each.
Bishop Gregory was there too, along with Abbot Rhys, which was something of a surprise, and Godfrid felt a little of his tension ease to see them both. Though he knew Rhys less well, he had trust in both churchmen, who strived always not to take sides in political disputes. Though Gregory was unmistakably loyal to the Church, he would no longer be bishop if Denmark or one of the Irish clans overcame Dublin. Which meant, to Godfrid’s mind, that he would be on Godfrid’s side once he knew the whole truth.
Not that either Conall or Godfrid intended to openly acknowledge in this hour that there were sides.
“So it seems we have our murderers.” Ottar leaned back in his chair and gestured expansively. “God is good.”
For a heartbeat, Godfrid hesitated, fearing that Ottar had somehow decided that he and Conall were the murderers, but then his breath eased as he realized Ottar was referring to the two dead men.
Holm rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking satisfied. “It is a good day for Dublin.” He had begun the day fearing that he would be accused of their murders, and now he was basking in the glory of solving the case.
“You all have done fine work, I must say.” Ottar clapped his hands together. “With the funeral done, I think we can put these deaths behind us.” He looked at Finn. “Do you feel that justice has been done for your father?”
“Yes, my lord.” Finn bent his head. “You will find no argument from me or from my partners.” He indicated Arno and Thorfin, both of whom nodded.
Godfrid glanced at Conall, who’d just met with Thorfin yesterday when things weren’t nearly as congenial. His focus was on King Ottar, however, and Godfrid waited a moment, thinking his friend was going to say something. He didn’t, so Godfrid let out a sigh, knowing he couldn’t in good conscience leave the matter alone. “Are we not at all concerned as to the reason two men from Brega would kill a leading merchant of Dublin?”
Finn held up his hand. “With the help of my partners, I am in the process of thoroughly searching my father’s records, looking for any transaction that could account for their presence. We will scrutinize everything and report our findings to the king.”
“Sturla has agreed to help in the search as well. I have sent word to the King of Brega that further forays into Dublin by his men will not be tolerated.” Ottar looked hard at Conall. “I expect you will send a full report to King Diarmait?”
“Of course.” Conall paused. “My lord, I don’t want to deflect from pressing issues, but what of the murderer who remains free?”
Ottar’s smile became stilted. “What murderer would that be?”
“The one who killed the men from Brega?”
Ottar affected an innocent look. “It seems obvious to me and to Sheriff Holm that they had a falling out. One man was strangling the other when his victim stabbed him. No more needs to be said about it than that.”
Conall coughed politely. “Someone dragged them into Holm’s stables and buried them under a mound of hay.”
Everyone at the table frowned, but Ottar still gestured dismissively. “Holm has made enemies in the time he has been sheriff. One of them stumbled upon the bodies and took advantage of their proximity to his house.”
Sturla nodded with satisfaction. “The King of Brega sent two murderers into Dublin. He can hardly object when they lost their lives in the process. Killing them was a righteous act, one my lord would reward most generously if he knew who’d done it.” He put up a finger. “Surely King Diarmait will see that the matter has been resolved internally. I can’t imagine there will be any more trouble from that quarter.”
It was only then—with some shock—that Godfrid realized everyone at the table really did think that Holm had killed the two men. Their smiles and nods and dismissal of the investigation were their way of praising him for it without open acknowledgement that he’d done it.
Godfrid couldn’t believe it, but he could find no words that would penetrate their mutual complacency. He found that his feet were frozen to the floor, but Conall simply bent his head politely and turned on his heel. When Godfrid didn’t immediately follow, he subtly tugged on his elbow and got him moving. Side-by-side they strode down the length of the hall, Godfrid’s temper rising with every step.
He held it in until they were actually through the palace gateway, at which point he stopped and turned on Conall. “Can you believe—”
“Not here, Godfrid.” Conall’s voice was sharp and commanding. “We will regroup again at my house.”
