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Day Four
Gareth
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On the ride back from the clearing, they’d wrested more of the story from Goff—the part Goff knew, anyway. He seemed desperate to clear his conscience—and avoid the accusation of treason.
In a way, what he had to say was hardly more than Gareth had known already: Goff had started the fighting ring under Ottar in an attempt to bring old-fashioned Danish values back to Dublin. As a Welshman, Gareth wasn’t necessarily in favor of some of them, including the ability to hack a man to pieces with a dull blade. But those of honor and loyalty were timeless and, under Ottar, they had not been prized sufficiently.
They got the rest of the story from Dai, whose language skills had proved invaluable: Vigo had been Donnell’s eyes and ears in Dublin before Ottar’s death—and he’d been the man who stabbed him in the back at the Battle of the Liffey. After Brodar’s elevation to king, Vigo and Donnell had hatched a new plan to murder Diarmait and their brother Rory to ensure Donnell’s inheritance. Vigo would then step to prominence, bastard or not, in Leinster, which then, like Dublin, would be a client state to Connaught.
In a way, Brodar should consider himself lucky not to have been a target, but even Vigo and Donnell seemed to have realized the Danes would never accept direct rule by either of them.
On the ride back to the city, Godfrid had told Vigo that trusting Donnell to follow through once he’d gained what he wanted was foolish. As Vigo had been gagged and thrown over the back of a horse at the time, he couldn’t reply, and Gareth had agreed to leave the questioning of him to Brodar and Godfrid. As a son of the High King, bastard or not, even tying him up was dangerous, and Gareth was perfectly happy to steer clear of the political winds that might blow from Connaught when the High King found out.
That left Arnulf, whom Gareth placed in a penitent cell at the church to think about the error of his ways. Gareth hadn’t even stopped to bathe and change, only grabbing an apple and a bite of cheese after leaving his horse at Godfrid’s house.
“You should be with your sister.” Gareth eyed Conall, who intercepted Gareth as he crossed the churchyard. Workers were picking up every stray leaf and twig from the surrounding grass, laying out the woven reed mat Cait would walk upon from the gate to the church door so as not to dirty her dress, and scattering flower petals, which Gareth and Conall skirted so as not to undo their good work.
“She is with our mother and Gwen. If I were smart, I’d be drinking a warm cup of mead—or better yet, sleeping—but that would leave this last task to you alone. Trust you not to shirk it and to finish what you started.”
“In the wake of the night’s events, I expect few others except Bishop Gregory to remember what we were here for in the first place.”
“Haven’t you heard? There’s an important wedding today,” Conall said.
Gareth gave him a wry smile. “Oh, I know, and the murder of an unpopular monk is hardly as exciting as uncovering treason. But Harald deserves justice, in whatever form that might take.”
“What if Arnulf can’t tell us what happened to Harald?”
“He will tell us,” Gareth said grimly, “or he will point us to the person who can.”
“If he’s smart, it will be someone who died tonight.”
“I’m praying he isn’t that smart.”
Arnulf sat on the low bed in the cell, hunched over with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Bishop Gregory was just leaving, his expression one of sadness. “I’ll be in in the little chapel, praying for the souls of all who’ve died this week.” He shot Arnulf a glance. “And for those still living. Please come find me after you’ve finished with him.”
“You are welcome to stay as witness,” Gareth said. “There will be no hurting him.”
Bishop Gregory smiled gently. “I know you won’t. That’s why I can leave you to it.”
At the arrival of Gareth and Conall, rather than trying to stonewall them, Arnulf chose to go on the offensive and started speaking the moment Gareth walked into the room. “I just explained everything to Bishop Gregory, and I’ll tell you too. I didn’t kill Harald.”
“Then tell us what happened, preferably from the beginning.”
Arnulf gripped the wooden siderail of the bed so hard his knuckles turned white. Now he’d started, he was reluctant to continue. But continue he did: “You can’t know what it means to be born Danish, neither of you. From birth, every boy is taught to be a warrior. Except now, few are given the opportunity to become one.” He’d been looking down at his feet, but now he looked up. “It is our birthright, and the kings of Dublin have squandered it for years.”
Gareth didn’t bother to argue the point since Arnulf was past listening.
Now the priest waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I know Ottar sent men to Wales to fight for Cadwaladr, and we fought against the men of Meath just last spring. But we weren’t prepared. There was a time when every Danish man was a fighter.” He plucked at his robe. “Not this.”
Conall canted his head, keeping his voice level. “You regret taking the cloth?”
Arnulf’s mouth twisted. “I am a younger son. My father died when I was a boy, and I had no one to train me. I joined the Church because my mother wanted it, and it seemed the better of my options.”
“When did you enter Goff’s company?” Conall asked.
“Near the beginning.”
“Which was when?” Gareth said.
“Two years ago?” Arnulf didn’t sound sure, but Gareth didn’t feel the need to press that particular point.
“What about Vigo?” he asked.
“He supplied us with weapons. Goff listened to him and was a good teacher, but not so good at speeches—or rather, he had one good speech and gave it every time, the one you heard, in fact.”
Gareth could see how that might be. “And Harald?”
“He came later. His brother was the soldier, not him. He came home to Dublin because Tiko had died and, as far as I could tell, Harald could think of little else but emulating the heroes of the past.” Arnulf’s expression turned doleful. “He tried hard, but he wasn’t very good.”
“You fought with him?” Gareth said.
Arnulf nodded. “We were thrown together, as you might expect, given our shared secret. At first, I was angry with him for joining, because I feared he would betray me. But he was on fire with Dublin’s warrior past and furious with Bishop Gregory and Brodar for not standing up to the Irish.” Suddenly his expression, which had become momentarily animated, turned sad. “A week ago things changed. He came to me with a story about how Vigo was really the bastard son of the High King and was set on betraying us with his brother Donnell, who’d been behind Ottar’s death and the war last May.”
Conall straightened in the doorway. “How did he know?”
“He’d followed Vigo to a meeting with Donnell. I have no idea how he found the time or what prompted him to do it. The risk he took!” Arnulf shook his head. “At the time, I didn’t see how it could be true and told him so. He railed at me, Vigo, and Goff so much it was as if he’d lost his mind. He wasn’t making sense.”
Arnulf paused, and when next he spoke, his tone was heavy with guilt. “I went to Vigo about it.”
Now they were getting to the meat of the matter. “Talk us through what happened the night he died.”
From behind Gareth, Conall added, “If you didn’t kill him, you have nothing to fear.”
Arnulf bent his head anyway. “It isn’t fear I must live with, but shame.”
Gareth let the silence lengthen, knowing Arnulf couldn’t help but fill it.
Finally, Arnulf sighed. “Vigo invited Harald to a private lesson, just him, me, and Harald. Full armor, as you saw. We fought hard.”
“Which is why his sword had untreated nicks in it,” Gareth said.
“Yes. He always endeavored to polish those out, but—” Arnulf looked down at his hands.
“But he died before he could. Tell me about that.”
“After the lesson, we drank toasts to our ancestors, as we always do. Vigo kept urging more drink on Harald, chiding him, accusing him of not being as tough as his forefathers. I thought Harald had been drinking before he arrived. Even after our training had sweated some of it out of him, he still wasn’t entirely sober, and he became even more belligerent, as some drunk men do, over the next hour. Finally, before the neighbors got involved, Harald and I left together. I was relieved, in truth. I was afraid of Vigo by then, and I feared—” he stopped.
“You feared what?” Gareth wasn’t going to let him end there.
Arnulf sighed. “I feared what Vigo might do to Harald if I left them alone together.”
“Harald was sober enough to walk?”
Arnulf nodded. “In retrospect, I should have steered him to his mother’s house, but we went home instead.”
“Did you see him to his room?”
“I told him he needed to get out of his armor, but he refused my help or to help me. He said he wanted to pray, and since I was hardly sober myself, all I could think about was getting caught out of bed. I left him heading towards the church. He was walking on his own, and I thought—” Arnulf stopped and swallowed. “I hoped prayer would be the best thing for him, and he would have forgotten all about his grievances by morning. I managed to claw my way out of my own armor and went to bed with a lighter heart.”
“Until the bishop found Harald dead in the chapel,” Gareth said, “in full armor.”
Arnulf nodded. “Until then.”
“Do you know why Harald died in the chapel?”
Arnulf had a look on his face that implied he’d thought of little else since the body had been found. “Harald was angry, betrayed—first by the bishop and then by Vigo. He was angrier at Vigo than with Bishop Gregory, however. Now that I’ve had a chance to consider, I don’t think he meant to profane the chapel.”
“Why else would he go there? Why lie on the altar?” Conall said.
Arnulf looked up, tears streaming down his cheeks. “In his mind, he was a monk and a warrior. In his drunken state, what better place could he have found to pray?”
“Or to lie?” Gareth said.
Arnulf nodded miserably.
From behind Gareth, Conall said in Welsh, for Gareth’s ears only, “There but for the grace of God go how many of us? I’ve rarely been that drunk, but when I was, thank all the saints I had better friends to watch over me than poor Harald.”
They’d been focused on Harald and his motives, but that didn’t mean Arnulf himself was off the hook, and now Gareth said, “Tell me about the quote on his bedside table.”
Arnulf’s expression turned sheepish. “I left it there.”
Gareth had guessed that, of course. Conall finally left the doorway and came closer. “You wanted us to think Harald killed himself? That was your idea?”
“Sort of.”
“What does that mean?” Gareth said.
Now a sulky look crossed Arnulf’s face. “When Bishop Gregory sent me to find you, first I stopped by Vigo’s shop and told him Harald had died and where his body had been found. He thought it would be enough to start the rumor. People love to gossip, so it didn’t take much.”
Gareth could only agree with that. “Where did the note come from?”
“Harald and I had been discussing the translation of the Bible into Danish he’d been working on. He had asked me to help him with some passages, so I knew where to find the paper. On the way back from speaking to you, I stopped by Harald’s mother’s house, tore the bit from the top of the paper, and left before his mother returned from the market. It seems I should have taken the whole paper and burned it. Bad luck, I guess.”
“I wouldn’t have thought a priest would believe in luck, bad or otherwise,” Conall said, though in an undertone.
If he heard, Arnulf ignored him, lost in his own story and misery. “It was the best I could do on short notice. Vigo hoped the note would stop the investigation before it started and thought it was better to have Harald condemned than for the bishop to find out about the fighting ring.” His shoulders fell. “Not that he didn’t find out anyway. Vigo was furious with me for not forcing Harald to remove his gear before we parted.” Then he snorted, mustering a bit of righteousness. “It was Vigo’s own fault for making Harald so angry. Normally we left our gear with him between bouts rather than trying to find a good hiding place in our rooms.”
“It was you who spread the rumors, though,” Conall said, pressing the point. “Despite the bishop’s determination to keep the cause of Harald’s death a secret, you made sure it was known, to the point that it got back to his own mother that same day.”
Arnulf’s eyes were on the ground again. “Yes.”
“And Vigo?” Gareth said. “By now you must have realized Harald was right, and yet you attempted to cover up what Vigo had done—and was doing.”
Arnulf still didn’t look up, and his shoulders hunched again.
“You wanted to protect yourself and your position that badly?”
“I was in too deep.”
Gareth suddenly put a few more pieces together. “You were in debt to Vigo, weren’t you? Maybe not just for the armor. Had you been gambling on the fights? And losing?”
Arnulf nodded dully. Then he put his face into his arms and began to weep. “I wish I could take it all back. I wish I’d helped my friend.”
