| |
Day One
Conall
––––––––
Gareth passed Bishop Gregory and went right up to the body, putting a hand first to the man’s neck to feel for the absent pulse, and then resting his hand flat on the corpse’s chest.
“I did check.” Bishop Gregory made a helpless gesture with one hand. “Every instinct told me I should have my flock remove him, but I thought you needed to see him as I found him.”
“Thank you for refraining.” Gareth dropped his hand and looked at the bishop. “How long ago did you find him?”
“About an hour.”
Conall had let Gareth enter the room first, since he was the professional investigator. And really, Conall saw no reason to get too close to the body just yet. He was more focused on the beautiful little church, which was clearly ancient, and it dawned on him that this must be the first church to be located in Dublin, built by the monks who’d established their community on this spot centuries before the Danes had come to Ireland.
At that time, a very different monastery had been associated with this little church. In fact, Conall recalled from the stories told at night in the hall where he’d grown up, that the Danes had sacked the community multiple times in their initial raids on Ireland, before deciding it was the best place to build their settlement and evicting the Irish monks entirely.
That was how the stories went. In all likelihood, the surviving monks had fled long since, having learned the lesson, belatedly and painfully, that they could not oppose a Viking landing party and live. Ancient buildings and sacred relics aside, monks were no use to anyone—God or man—dying on the end of a Norse blade. Farther inland, the monastery at Kells had chosen to maintain their position, but in so doing had built a high tower, from the top of which it was possible to see for miles in every direction. Its purpose was to provide warning of the Vikings’ approach, giving the monks and villagers time to flee. That hadn’t prevented Ottar, Dublin’s previous king, from sacking the monastery and village three times. But the loss of life had been minimal.
Conall’s Irish pride was rising to think of it—along with anger at the Danes who’d built their cathedral and their city over the ruins of this holy place. Conall had been sent to Dublin to help offset the generations of bad blood between the Danes and the Irish—and to evaluate how strong the sentiment against Leinster remained.
It was pretty strong, in truth, but not so much he thought his uncle had to fear rebellion—especially now that Godfrid and Cait were marrying.
But then Conall took in a breath and allowed his emotion to subside. Ottar was dead, and the Danes at Christ’s Church were not responsible for the actions of their ancestors, any more than he was responsible for the deeds of his. The men of Dublin had preserved the little church, regardless of how they’d come by it, and Bishop Gregory was a man of God—who was understandably anxious about finding a body in so sacred a place.
The man lay like a king lying in state before a funeral. But even a king would be laid on a table before the altar, never on it. It mattered not at all that Christ’s Church was a Danish cathedral, or that the bishop was Danish, or that he’d been ordained at Canterbury instead of Armagh. The altar was the site of the Holy Sacrament. It could be used for no other purpose. The sacrilege would reverberate throughout Dublin—and all of Ireland—when it got out. The only reason nobody knew about it already was because the church that had been desecrated was the little one hidden here.
Conall moved closer to the altar, infected by Bishop Gregory’s anxiety and appreciative of his desire to remove the body as quickly as possible. Though the dead man’s surcoat was akin to a Templar’s, upon closer inspection, he was dressed less like a warrior monk or knight than a Danish king of old.
In addition to the massive sword in his hands and the aforementioned surcoat, his gear included a full mail hauberk and its padded gambeson, leather bracers on both forearms, leather pants, knee-high boots, and what could have been a real gold torc around his neck. Rather than a feather, his metal helmet sported two ram’s horns, an arrangement that would be completely impractical in battle and something Conall had never seen before. Conall didn’t know if he wore the horns as a nod to his Danish pagan ancestors or because he had a misguided notion that they were what a Danish knight might wear to war.
Gareth fingered one of the horns. “I’ve seen this done before. One of Godfrid’s warriors had one made, though this is not the same helmet.”
What Gareth wasn’t telling the bishop was that he himself had once worn that helmet as a disguise when riding among Godfrid’s men. Godfrid had made Gareth wear it in order to distract the English in Chester from his real identity. The idea had been that the English would have eyes only for the outlandish horns and wouldn’t look twice at the face underneath them.
The deception had worked, though the aftermath had been disastrous. This had been before Conall’s time, but he’d heard about it, from both Gareth and Godfrid. The events of that week had resulted in the death of Rhun, Hywel’s elder brother, at the hands of their uncle Cadwaladr. The death had ripped apart not only Gwynedd, but King Owain’s heart, and elevated Hywel to edling.
Godfrid’s men were known throughout Dublin, and Christ’s Church was near the palace. It wasn’t impossible that the dead man had seen the helmet and copied it, having no idea of its tragic history. In fact, the more Conall thought about it, the more it seemed reasonable that might be the case.
But other than the gear, the man little resembled a warrior. He was shorter than Conall, more the size of Bishop Gregory, perhaps five and a half feet tall, without the bulky shoulders, legs, and arms one would expect to see in a man who’d trained as a fighter. It was as if the dead man had been a youth, playing at war, for all that he appeared to be approaching thirty. They would learn how accurate Conall’s assessment was when they got him some place where they could strip off his armor.
“I am most disturbed that the body was placed here, in the very heart of the cathedral, in the holiest site in the city—to both Irish and Dane.” Bishop Gregory’s hands were clenched in front of him. “Especially with the wedding so close.”
“I understand, believe me,” Gareth said. “Even knowing nothing about this death but what I see before me, if I can assist in the discovery of how and why this man died, I will.”
Everybody in Dublin was referring to the upcoming wedding as ‘Godfrid’s wedding’, but to Conall and the Irish clans who surrounded the Danish kingdom, it was ‘Caitriona’s wedding’. An Irish woman was marrying a prince of Dublin, thus uniting Leinster and Dublin even more firmly than they already were. That ceremony would take place in four days—barely enough time to cleanse and sanctify the cathedral. The bishop would be loath to move the celebratory mass to another church, however. Christ’s Church was Dublin’s pride and joy. It wouldn’t be fitting to marry Godfrid and Caitriona anywhere else.
Gwen moved to stand beside Conall and said in a low voice, “The fact that the body is in this position does send a very distinct message.” It was just like her to have detected the undercurrents in the room, with little knowledge herself of Dublin’s current politics.
Bishop Gregory overheard. “It is not a message I could ever imagine Harald wanting to send.”
“So you know this man?” Gareth said, rightfully surprised the bishop hadn’t opened with that information.
“He is Harald Ranulfson, a monk in the service of the cathedral. He was specifically tasked in the scriptorium, because his handwriting is so beautiful.” Bishop Gregory paused. “Was so beautiful.”
All of them allowed that thought to settle for a moment, and then Gwen said, “I know I don’t need to point out that he is dressed as if he is about to go a Viking, not as a monk or a scribe.”
Bishop Gregory fingered one of the horns on the helmet as Gareth had done, his face drawn and weary. “I could not tell you why.”
“You are certain this is Harald and not, perhaps, a brother or close cousin?” Gwen asked.
“It is Harald.” Bishop Gregory pointed to a large mole to the left of the dead man’s chin. “I would recognize him anywhere. If we were to remove his gloves, I have no doubt his fingers would be ink-stained.” He looked over at Gareth. “Do you have some idea how he died?”
“I apologize, your Grace, but I can see nothing amiss from here,” Gareth said. “I will have to examine him before I could say more.”
Bishop Gregory’s expression turned even more doleful. “I suppose I should be grateful the altar isn’t covered in blood.”
“Is anything else awry or missing in here or in the cathedral itself?” Gwen began to circle the altar, ignoring the fact that it required her to enter the area of the chapel, as in the cathedral, reserved only for churchmen. As a woman and a member of the laity, it was a double offense. Conall was amused that Gwen didn’t appear to care. As always, the investigation was all. If Bishop Gregory hadn’t realized what calling in Gareth and Gwen entailed, he was learning it now.
Her question seemed to surprise Bishop Gregory, who understandably was entirely focused on the body, but he recovered after a moment and pointed to a bronze box on a little stand behind the altar. The greenish tinge aside, it had ornate carvings along its sides and had clearly been made by a master metalworker.
“The box contains our holy relic, a finger of Saint Patrick. Normally it is kept safe in a strongbox in the vestry. I don’t know how it came to be here.”
Gwen put a hand to her heart. “The relic is still in the box?”
“It is! After Harald’s pulse, it was the first thing I checked.”
Conall hadn’t known Bishop Gregory ever to lie, but he wouldn’t have put it past the bishop to have checked for the relic first. Dead body or not, monk or not, the holy relic was more valuable than any other possession—and more important to the Church than Harald’s death. To have the little chapel defiled and the relic lost would have been a crime beyond reckoning.
“Who was Harald, your Grace?” Conall asked. “To you or to your flock?”
Bishop Gregory’s expression showed regret. “Until today, I wouldn’t have said he was anybody important.” Then he put out a hasty hand, realizing how that had sounded. “He was of no more importance than any other man in the sight of God. As I said, as a monk, he worked primarily in the scriptorium.”
“You said his handwriting was beautiful,” Conall said. “Does that mean he was good at his job?”
“Very good. We have none other here to match him. Maybe none in all Ireland, though I would not proclaim such a thing to my Irish brethren.”
“Was he well-liked?” Gwen asked.
“That I cannot tell you. I know each of the men here by name and face, but my duties preclude me from truly knowing many of them well, especially since so many are new to us and to Dublin. Harald came to us a few months ago with the other brothers of his order.”
“From where?” Gareth asked.
“Most of the monks are Danish, from small priories between here and Waterford. We do not have so many houses that any could afford to lose more than one or two to us. We asked for those who could be sent and then quested farther afield.” Bishop Gregory thought a moment. “I can tell you Harald was born in Dublin, but he found his calling in Denmark, and he was one of several who came to us from there. I suppose you could say his choice to join our number was a way to come home. His mother lives here still.” Bishop Gregory paused and said in an entirely flat tone. “I must inform her of her son’s death.”
“And he was a monk, not a priest?” Conall asked.
“Yes.”
“Inducted where?”
“In Ribe, having completed his studies there. He was one of the first of the Benedictines to arrive.”
“The wealth represented in the sword, not to mention the mail hauberk, marks him as a rich man. Do you have any idea how he might have acquired his gear?” Gareth asked.
“No.” Bishop Gregory wore his emotions on his face, and now he merely looked bewildered.
“You said at first that you discovered the body,” Gareth said. “Just you?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell us how it came about that you found him?” Gwen said.
“Of course.” He made a helpless gesture. “It was my usual time for prayers.”
“Usual in what sense?” Gareth said. “Are you normally in this chapel at this hour?”
“Yes.”
“Every day?” Gareth kept his eyes fixed on Bishop Gregory’s face.
“Every day I am in Dublin, yes.”
“How many other people would have entered the chapel before you today?”
“None.” Bishop Gregory coughed into his fist. “It is the innermost part of the Church. None of the other priests say their prayers in here.”
“In other words, you reserve it for your private use.” Conall tried to keep the judgment out of his tone.
By the gentle look Bishop Gregory gave him in reply, Conall was pretty certain he hadn’t succeeded. “I can see why it might appear that way to an outsider. But no one is forbidden to come here. Because the entrance is off the vestry, however, if a lay person wished to pray here, he would have to ask.”
“What about a servant or a monk responsible for cleaning?” Gwen said.
“None are charged with this chapel. As a reminder that I am a man like any other, I take it upon myself to sweep and dust every week.”
“Is that something most people would know?” Gwen finally turned away from the relic.
“I suppose.” Bishop Gregory was more tentative in this answer.
When neither Gareth nor Gwen chose to press him on the matter, Conall spoke again. “I suppose, Father, or yes.”
He still dithered. “I have to say yes.”
Conall didn’t have to ask the meaning of the look that passed between Gareth and Gwen behind Bishop Gregory’s back at this admission. It was their practice not to assume anything about an investigation so early in the day, but even Conall could see the reason the body was here at this hour was because whoever had laid poor Harald on the altar had intended him to be found by Bishop Gregory. It was a message, as Gwen had said.
Bishop Gregory realized it too, and he spoke with a mix of awe and grief in his voice. “Someone wanted me to find the body. Someone wanted me to see Harald like this. Someone wanted me to know, me personally, that he had defiled my church. The killer.”
“I would have to agree,” Gwen said. “That is, if Harald was, in fact, murdered.”
