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Day One
Cadoc
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As a Welshman who’d spent his life amongst foreigners of every stripe and condition, Cadoc was used to being an outsider. But this was the first time in a long while that he’d been somewhere he couldn’t communicate beyond hand signals. He spoke Welsh, French, English, and Gaelic. The last was even one of his first languages, because one of his grandmothers had been Irish and refused to learn Welsh. For her entire life, she’d tolerated her family speaking Welsh to her while she replied in Gaelic. He had thought knowing the language might come in handy in Ireland, and it still might, if he had cause to speak to King Diarmait or maybe Caitriona. But so far, all he’d heard was Danish.
Brodar’s hall was adorned with trophies from bygone times, acquired, Cadoc assumed, on raids from Galway to St. David’s. The average Welshman had no love for Danes, having been on the receiving end of their axes for several hundred years. Like Cadoc’s granny, Prince Hywel’s mother had been Irish, but he had Danish blood too from his father. And, as Cadoc watched, somewhat grouchily, his prince conversed in Danish with Brodar, having already made his greetings to King Diarmait in fluent Gaelic.
The surprise of the night, however, had turned out to be not this murder Gareth was caught up in, but young Dai, Gareth’s adopted son, who was seated beside Cadoc. With a single-mindedness he’d shown in few arenas, Dai had spent these last months, ever since they’d learned of Godfrid’s wedding and that they’d all be going, at Cadoc’s heels, begging for every snippet of Gaelic Cadoc could impart. Even in one summer, he’d become conversant. Dai had also looked to Prince Hywel for Danish, though with less result, simply because Hywel had less time for him.
Once their journey began, however, Dai had planted himself amongst the sailors who’d come for them in their ship for the two-day journey to Dublin, submersing himself in the language. By the time the ship docked, he could communicate in basic sentences in both languages and understood ten times more than he spoke. For the first time ever, Dai had discovered he was better than his brother at something—better than everyone, in fact.
“What are they saying?” Cadoc nudged Dai’s elbow with his, drawing the boy’s attention to the group of Danes directly behind them. Tonight, Cadoc wasn’t sitting with his back to the wall. It wasn’t out of choice but because they’d arrived in the hall too late to claim any of the best places.
Cadoc had worked with Llelo in Bristol and concluded he would ably fill his father’s shoes when the time came. But Dai had something about him that drew Cadoc to him. He was less earnest, certainly, but more fiery, questing all the time to prove himself. Likely Dai reminded Cadoc of himself as a boy. Dai had been fortunate enough to have been saved by Gareth at a far earlier age than Gareth had saved Cadoc, which had resulted, miraculously, in a fundamentally sunny personality and hardly any chip on his shoulder.
“Shh. I’m listening.” Dai kept his head down, to all appearances completely focused on the trencher before him. “They’re talking about the advantages of one weapon over another.”
Disappointed, Cadoc shifted in his seat. He missed the wall to lean against. “A bow is best. I could tell them that.”
“Bows don’t look to be much used weapons of war for the Danes,” Dai said. “At issue for them are axes versus swords.”
“Swords are expensive.” Cadoc pursed his lips. “Maybe the great lords like your father haven’t thought of it yet, but that’s another reason it’s strange for Harald to have had one.”
From the age of ten, Cadoc had spent most of his life in martial pursuits, but in regards to Harald’s sword, as with the Danish language, he found himself a little out of his depth. While he could appreciate—and wield—a sharp knife when called upon to do so, he was an archer, not a swordsman.
By now the entire Welsh contingent, every one of whom had participated in an investigation in one way or another over the last five years, knew what Gareth and Gwen knew. Each was charged with discovering whatever they could about who Harald was, to whom he confided, why he was dressed as he was, and what impact his gear may or may not have had on his death. The more they discovered tonight, the sturdier would be the foundation of the formal investigation that would begin first thing in the morning.
What nobody had told Gareth was that the Dragons were in the midst of a private competition amongst themselves as to which of them could acquire the most useful and relevant information and be of most use to the investigation. In that endeavor, Cadoc viewed Dai as his secret weapon and had no qualms about using the boy to spy for him.
“That’s what one man is arguing, saying a sword is all very well and good in battle, if a man knows how to wield it, but it is quite another thing in the—” Dai paused as the foursome behind them rose to their feet and departed.
“He said all that, did he?” Cadoc said dryly.
Dai’s expression turned sheepish. “It isn’t as if I understand every word. I let it wash over me, and then I can summarize.”
“Can you finish the sentence? In the what? Why did you stop?”
“I don’t know why he used the word he did.”
“What word?”
“Arena.”
“You’re sure?”
“It’s from the Latin word harena and is the same in English as Danish. Lots of Danish words are.”
Cadoc’s eyes widened slightly to hear it. “That’s why it’s been so easy for you to learn!”
The corners of Dai’s mouth turned down, turning his expression truculent. “Others speak English. Father and Mother do. You speak English. And Danish hasn’t been easy for you.”
Cadoc hastened to pat him on the shoulder. “No offense meant, young man. I hadn’t learned enough yet to make that connection.”
Dai looked slightly mollified. To soften him up further, Cadoc added, “You are better at languages than anyone I have ever met. I suspect you could learn French more quickly if you do what you did with Gaelic and Danish. It’s trying to do it with a tutor and books that turns you upside down.”
Dai’s expression turned thoughtful. “That’s what Father said. My French did improve enormously while we were in Bristol.”
“There! See! What did I tell you?” Cadoc lowered his voice. “Best you don’t let any of these Danes know how good you are. Your eavesdropping could be the difference between uncovering the answers and not.”
Dai scratched his forehead, his eyes scanning the crowd. The great hall was packed to the rafters, with everyone who was anyone in Dublin putting in an appearance.
At that moment, Brodar stood and began to speak—in Danish, Cadoc again sourly observed. Dai focused intently on Brodar’s face, probably trying to read his lips as well as listen to his words.
But the fact that Cadoc didn’t understand more than one word in ten had the effect of shifting his attention away from what people were saying to what they were doing. And while it appeared the majority of the audience was enthusiastic about the union between Godfrid and Caitriona—Dublin and Leinster—here and there appeared faces where the happiness seemed forced. Towards the back of the hall, several men were sitting in a row with their arms folded across their chests. They could simply be unromantic types, but they could also be trouble.
Then Jon, Godfrid’s captain, eased onto the bench beside Cadoc and spoke to him in French. “Sorry not to introduce myself to you before. With this murder, I had other duties to attend to. You are one of the Dragons.” It wasn’t a question.
“I am.”
“You do not like my king’s speech?”
“I do not understand your king’s speech, as you well know.”
Jon eyed Dai, who appeared to be speaking to himself under his breath. Jon studied him for another few moments, his eyes narrowing, and then said, “Unlike this one?”
Cadoc put a finger to his lips. “We are keeping that between ourselves for now.” And then he decided he liked Jon’s tone and attitude and could confess further, “He is my secret weapon.”
Jon grinned. The two men were of an age, both veteran soldiers, and Cadoc felt his understanding returned. Then Jon lifted his chin to point to the warriors at the back of the hall. While Jon and Cadoc had been talking, they’d moved apart from one another, as if they’d realized they were giving themselves away.
“Brodar didn’t exactly take the throne over Ottar’s dead body, since Ottar died in the war against the men of Meath, but he did die, and everyone knows Brodar believed Ottar was a usurper. If he hadn’t been serving in another part of the battlefield at the time of Ottar’s death, Brodar might have been accused of stabbing him in the back.”
The bitterness in Jon’s tone had Cadoc looking at him hard. “Ottar was literally stabbed in the back?”
“Yes.”
“In the heat of battle, a man can get turned around, especially once a shield wall breaks. It doesn’t have to have been one of his own who did it.”
“That is what Brodar put out for the few who knew the way Ottar died. We all would stab an opponent any way we could if it meant our own survival.” Jon’s chin wrinkled. “But the entry wound was narrow, as made by a knife.”
“He got close, then.”
Jon’s jaw firmed. “Good riddance, I say. Brodar was always the better man, and we can see even from the few months he’s been on the throne that he is a better king.”
Cadoc nodded. “I have been in Dublin half a day, but I can tell what a small community it is. Gossip about the way Ottar dishonored himself, even if it isn’t discussed publicly, has to have spread by now.”
“You’re right, and it hasn’t done Brodar any harm that he has refused to discuss it.”
“But if Ottar’s most ardent supporters, those who didn’t fall in battle, are coming to realize who Ottar really was, they might be resentful, even ashamed—and then more resentful because they don’t like feeling ashamed.”
Jon turned his head to look at Cadoc. “You see all that from a few hours in our city?”
Cadoc gave a little snort. “There is also the matter of the queen. I understand she disappeared with Ottar’s son. What explanation has Brodar given?”
“That she didn’t want to witness Brodar’s ascension and returned to the Isle of Man.”
“Is that true?”
“Messages to Man have gone unanswered.”
“Ottar’s father does rule there,” Cadoc said. “He has refused to hear Brodar?”
“So it appears.”
Cadoc wet his lips. “That isn’t a good start.”
Jon took a long sip from his cup. The mead was flowing freely tonight. “The King of Man has not marshalled an army, being busy with his own affairs and threats to his own throne, but we are on alert.”
“Which brings us back to Ottar’s supporters. Brodar has enemies in his midst.”
“Always.”
“Could these enemies have had anything to do with Harald’s death?”
Other than that one hard look at Cadoc, Jon had been continually scanning the hall, but now he swung his eyes back. “I heard he took his own life.”
Cadoc frowned. “Did Godfrid tell you that?” Even had Gareth’s people spoken Danish, none would have mentioned it, under strict orders to keep the information secret.
“He did, but only after I asked, having heard from someone else already.” Jon frowned. “I think one of the men said something about it earlier this afternoon.”
Cadoc let out a hmm. “Suicide is one possibility, but a death that looks like suicide provides a convenient avenue for a killer to escape.”
Jon waggled his head in a noncommittal way. “Harald’s brother did serve Ottar faithfully.”
Cadoc had heard that too from Gareth. “The sword Harald died with was not only much-used but well-made. It could have been his brother’s, and your prince is sending Holm to find that out from Harald’s mother tomorrow. But I don’t see why we should wait to discover who crafted it. Any ideas?”
“I haven’t seen it yet, but I might be able to answer you after I see it. And if we were to bring it to the castle armorer, he would know more. If the armorer here didn’t do the work himself, he should know the name of the man who did.”
“I will speak to Gareth.”
“And I to Godfrid.”
Cadoc smiled as he took a long drink of his mead. Maybe he’d bring Dai along too.
