"Here, here!"
The knights pounded their fists on the table, the tremors from their hard, calloused hands causing the cups of wine and mead in front of them to spill over.
"We must bring this murderer to justice!" Gryndall roared, his eyes blazing. "I'm here. I'm not searching the island like I would like to be doing. I'm not turning over every stone and checking behind every tree looking for this whoreson."
"My Lord."
All eyes turned to the knight who had interrupted. It was Theo and Gryndall pursed his lips, wanting to reprimand the young knight for interrupting him. But he took a deep breath.
"Yes, Theo."
"What can we do to help Percy Goodfellow's family?"
It was a fair question and thus despite his rudeness for interrupting, it warranted a response.
"That's a good question."
"Aye. What can we do to help the poor man's family?" cried Junius, another knight, feeling brave enough to repeat Theo's question.
The king sighed and relaxed his tense stance.
So much for order and discipline.
"We're going to do as much as possible to help his wife and their three children. I have already sent a pigeon to the mayor of Darnfell informing him that Mrs. Goodfellow is to be provided with ten crowns - enough to feed and clothe her family for a year or more."
There came a course of thumping fists on the table.
"And," Gryndall continued, raising his voice so that he would be heard over the din of the men's fist thumping, "I have instructed the mayor that, should Mrs. Goodfellow ever need anything, to write me and I will gladly respond by sending whatever she requires."
Another round of fists thumping on the table.
"Here, here! Our king is most generous!"
The king waved a hand and his knights quieted.
"But that is still not enough for me! The man who murdered her husband remains free. Percy Goodfellow was doing his job when he was savagely ambushed.”
“And by Vikings,” Conan spat.
Gryndall nodded as a ripple of murmurs spread around the table.
“Bloody Vikings! We should invade Vinland!”
“With what army? We've hardly an army these days.”
“Vikings in Carthal? It can’t be.”
“I tell you, it’s quite likely.”
Gryndall listened to their banter for an entire minute before raising a hand. All nineteen knights fell silent and he spoke. “The idea that Vikings are responsible for the ambush is something that we are considering. However, it is far too early to jump to conclusions. I will be writing to Bergthor to inquire about the present state of things in Vinland. If Vikings were in fact responsible for last week's ambush, it could simply be a rogue crew of bandits. But until I hear back from Bergthor, and because there are still so many unknowns, I am posting three knights at every town and city in southern Carthal. Four shall stay here, with me, at Clarendon."
There were quiet grumblings of discontent.
"We all know who'll be staying here."
"Donal and Dalwynn for sure. They're his favourites."
"...not looking forward to spending the summer away from my girl."
Gryndall ignored these and continued speaking. "For those of you posted to locations outside of Clarendon - at Nairn, Hawthorne, Darnfell, Brinsley, and Lancaster - I want news. On a daily basis. Any curious developments or strange events you encounter, are to be reported to me or the local mayor. The pigeons, with my orders for all of Carthal's mayors about your assignments, are already on their way. You will be stationed at the local fort where you will work alongside the local militia."
"Do we get to choose, my Lord?"
"Choose what, Leith?"
"Where we're posted?"
"No. Any more questions?"
"For how long, my Lord?"
"Until we find the man or men responsible for Percy Goodfellow's murder, Gunn."
"And if that takes a year?"
"Then it takes a year. You are welcome to move your families to the cities where you will be posted and you shall be given a generous allowance to cover all additional expenses. I am a fair man after all. Am I not?"
"Yes, my Lord," the nineteen knights answered in unison.
Gryndall smiled. "Very well. Any more questions?"
After a minute in which no one spoke, he gave a nod of satisfaction. "This Assembly is therefore adjourned. But in parting, let me leave you with something to think about. Here, at Clarendon, our great capital, we are relatively safe. We are sheltered and largely immune to things like murder. But do not, for one instant, allow this to lull you into a false sense of security. You Knights of the Order form the first and last line of Carthalian defense. You must therefore remain vigilant. Remain en garde."
"Aye, my Lord."
"Aye, my Lord."
"Aye, my Lord."
Gryndall gave a satisfactory nod. "This is your kingdom. Your home. Your land. Defend it!"
"Here, here!" the knights cried, and all but Morcant gave the Order's salute.
Chapter Seven
(June 7)
Antolis is seated in the monastery study, engrossed in a book. Anwir has just greeted him from the doorway, interrupting his reading.
"I need you to write a letter to Gryndall."
Seated against the wall in his favourite reading chair, Antolis closed his book and looked up as Anwir stepped fully into the study and shut the door firmly behind him.
"A letter? For what reason?"
Anwir sniffed as he picked at a fleck of dirt with his fingernail. "I want the money he promised me."
"Money?"
"The money for the Council. To have Brother Lionel's sentence reduced to lashes."
"I don't understand. You mean to say that Gryndall offered you money to ensure Brother Lionel would avoid the death penalty?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes."
Antolis' brow furrowed. "That doesn't seem like something Gryndall would do."
Anwir shrugged. "I may have helped him make that decision."
"This vexes me, your Worship."
"How so? Lionel lives and we get money for a new monastery."
The Deputy Priest pursed his lips and shook his head slowly from side to side. "Because we're extorting that money from Gryndall."
Anwir passed a hand dismissively through the space in front of him. "He's got plenty of money. His coffers are brimming with gold and jewels. So what if we pressure him for a bit of it."
"But Gryndall is a good man, your Worship. To cheat him like this...it's...it's - "
"It's what?"
"It's wrong."
Anwir laughed. "Wrong? Wrong?"
Reaching forward he placed a hand on the book Antolis was holding and pressed his face into his.
"Wrong is letting us live the lowly lives we lead. Look at this place," he said, taking three steps back and gesturing around the study with open arms. "We're cramped. We're full. How can we ever hope to expand and increase our ranks if this is what we have on offer? What Carthalian will ever come here to live and study and follow the faith when this is the place he shall have to call home?"
"Your Worship, it's hardly - "
"Leaking roofs. Mice. A constant draft. This building is a nightmare. We need a new one and Gryndall is going to pay for it."
"Your Worship, really, I think - "
"Enough!"
Eyes blazing, Anwir suddenly cleared the top of a nearby desk with one sweeping arm sending books and quills and parchment flying.
"You will write a letter to Gryndall, today, requesting the money he owes us or I will have you stripped of your office and title!"
And with that, Anwir flung the door open with such violent force that as he stormed from the study it struck the wall and slammed shut behind him.
Night fall. Time to do the deed. It would be difficult. But he could do it. Emitting a heavy sigh, Erik the Bald rose from his chair. On the table lay the remnants of the meal h
e'd just consumed - the skeleton of an entire cod fish, a few grains of wild rice, and three apple cores. Already the scraps were beginning to attract a flies.
He swatted at them and took up the dagger he'd used as a utensil, sticking it into the leather pouch around his waist after wiping it clean on his leather trousers. Then, gathering up the mess, he carried it to the kitchen and dropped it into the wash basin. Lucinda could deal with it in the morning.
While normally Bergthor's caregiver returned in the evenings to bathe and prepare the old man for bed, she'd had a wedding to attend in Akureyri and had left straight after breakfast, not to return until tomorrow.
This was his window of opportunity.
He sighed as he stepped into the hallway and peered down it. At the end, his father's bedroom. The door stood slightly ajar and the soft sounds of his gentle snoring echoed from out of the narrow opening.
Best be quick about it, he thought, making his way quickly, and with purpose, towards his father's bedroom.
If he hurried, he could make it. Walking briskly along the beaten dirt road, Karl Nördgren spotted the butcher's in the distance. Helga had promised him stew for supper if he bought the meat and he fingered the coin in his pocket requisitioned for the purpose. Bjorn Paulson liked to close as soon as it grew dark and he wasn't one to wait around for last minute customers.
It wasn't far to go now. Another fifty yards at most.
The street was dimly lit by the occasional lamp that hung from a post or in a window. Wind mobiles chimed in the soft breeze coming off the sea, and the street felt eerily quiet.
As he neared the jarl's house - easily recognizable as it was the only L-shaped longhouse in town - he debated whether to cross the street to the other side. After all, he didn't want to run into Erik the Bald and have him demand another favour of him; Helga had given him enough flack already for the last favour he'd agreed to do.
But something made him stay on this side of the street.
Another twenty yards and he'd pass right in front of their door.
Ten yards. Five.
He stopped for a split second as he passed and through the cornermost window saw something that made his blood run cold. There was Erik the Bald.
He was standing over someone lying in bed - someone that could only be his father, Bergthor - and he appeared to be smothering him with a pillow. His expression was difficult to gauge - a combination of sad and tired with a hint of maniacal - and in the split second that Karl Nördgren was able to perceive all of this, Erik the Bald had looked up.
Erik the Bald had looked up. Their eyes had locked and Karl had passed out of sight, the entire occasion hardly causing him to break his stride.
Another second and he was past the jarl's house. His pace quickened and he turned right at the next street. Going to the butcher's was no longer an option. Going anywhere was no longer an option. In fact, living in Skagen was no longer an option.
For Erik the Bald, thain and now jarl with his father's last breaths, had seen him. Had seen him see him. And as witness to Erik the Bald's patricide, the old man had every reason to believe he would be next.
He and Helga would have to leave Skagen. They would have to leave tonight. Perhaps they could catch a wagon to Akuryeri. Though maybe it would be safer and faster to get a boat to Visby. Helga had kin in Visby. They could stay with them.
He turned right at the next street. Now he was headed back home, his feet carrying him as fast as they could.
How long until Erik the Bald came for them? A minute? An hour? A day?
His mind raced as he deliberated.
At the end of the street, a small lantern burned dimly. He was halfway home.
But then. No. It couldn't be. There was a man standing there. Just off to the side. The man stepped into the glow cast by the light.
Erik the Bald.
"Karl Nordgren. My dear friend and trusted servant. You're out rather late tonight. Where are you headed in such a hurry?"
He'd known he would double back. He'd gone around and had cut him off.
The old man's voice caught in his throat. "Nowhere...nowhere, in particular, my Lord."
"Well you sure seem to be in an awful hurry for going nowhere."
Karl mustered a smile. "It's my wife. She's got supper ready for me. I'm late."
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. That's not very polite. Being late for your wife when she's made you a good supper."
Karl stopped and the blood drained from his face as Erik the Bald stepped closer and he saw what was in his hand.
A meat cleaver. The kind used to hack the blubber from seals.
"You saw something you weren't supposed to, Karl."
"Really? I...I...what did I see?"
The old man backed away as the younger one stepped closer, the cleaver still at his side.
"I think you know, Karl."
"I won't say anything. I swear. I swear, my Lord. On my life. I swear it."
Erik the Bald smiled and shook his head. His expression was sad yet contented.
"I can't take that chance, Karl."
"Please! I'm begging you - my wife - I have a wife - no! No! Please!"
Thwack.
Chapter Eight
(June 9)
Gryndall and Copernicus are in Copernicus' study. Gryndall is pacing back and forth, his hands behind him, dictating a letter to Copernicus.
"Dearest Bergthor the Brave, friend and ally of Carthal - that's not too much is it?" Gryndall asked, ceasing his pacing and looking at me as I sat at my desk, a quill in my hand and a blank sheet of parchment in front of me.
I shrugged. "I guess it depends. Do you want Bergthor to reply favourably to your inquiry?"
"Yes."
"Then it doesn't hurt to be liberal with your flattery."
Gryndall nodded. "Right then. Dearest Bergthor the Brave, friend and ally of Carthal..."
It took us more than an hour but eventually I'd managed to scrawl out a good copy of the following letter:
Dearest Bergthor the Brave, friend and ally of Carthal. It has been a year or more since I last wrote you. How fareth thee? I hope you are keeping well.
Ygraine and I hope to soon welcome our new child into this world. We're about a month away says the midwife. So far, so good.
How are your kin? How is your son? I've not yet had the opportunity to meet him. Perhaps a visit to Vinland is in order. I am well overdue for one.
My father cherished the strong allegiance you two established between our two nations. I hope to preserve that allegiance. After all, Carthalians and Vikings fare much better when they are friends.
The reason for my letter is that one of my royal carriage drivers was recently ambushed, murdered, and beheaded. To add insult to injury, the money chest he was transporting was found empty.
This tragedy has greatly upset the long-lasting peace we have had here and my people are on edge. Without offending you, brother, friend, there is some suspicion that Vikings may have been involved in this incident.
I am a fair and reasonable man, as you know, and I would not come to you with such an accusation without due cause. Furthermore, I am not yet resoundingly certain that Vikings were, in fact, responsible.
However, with that said, it would be helpful to know if you have noticed any odd or peculiar activity in Vinland - or perhaps an incident similar to this one. Murders and beheadings and such.
This sort of information would be of tremendous use to us.
As I stated above, I hope that my words do not offend. I am simply trying to get to the bottom of these troubling events.
Ygraine sends her warmest regards and we hope to hear from you soon.
Yours in friendship,
Gryndall
"How do you think he'll respond, Copernicus?" Gryndall asked as he scrutinized the final copy of the letter.
"I confess, I'm not entirely sure. We haven't heard much from him these past months."
"Yes. Odd, isn't it?"
I shr
ugged. "Somewhat. Leaders are busy. You yourself are proof of that. He's also getting older and likely slowing down a bit."
"Well, as long as we haven't offended him. He's an important ally and we need him if Carthal is to continue to have peace."
"I couldn't agree more, my Lord."
Chapter Nine
(June 10)
"Husband."
Gryndall rolled over and looked at his wife. She stood at the window, the sun catching her blonde hair and making it sparkle as she unbound a letter from the talons of a long, razor-billed falcon.
"A falcon?"
Ygraine didn't answer, but looked at the letter.
"From Lindisfarne?"
She nodded and Gryndall climbed out of bed and made his way quickly to the window.
"Give it to me."
"What's the magic word?"
"Come on. I haven't time for games, Ygraine."
The queen sighed and pressed the letter into his hand.
"You know I forgot to mention the other day. That nephew of yours. Lionel."
"What about him?"
"He was - "
Grnydall stopped as he read the contents of the letter:
Greetings Your Majesty,
I am sorry I was unable to attend our quarterly meeting at Brinsley. Anwir had requested that I stay behind and tend to the flock while he met with you.
It pains me to write this letter as I consider you a dear friend. But the Council will be meeting a week from today to determine the punishment of Brother Lionel. I have the utmost confidence that Anwir will be able to convince them to simply toss out the charges or, in the worst case scenario, have the sentence reduced to lashes.
Of course, and I find it difficult to write these words, but your young nephew's life hinges on whether or not Anwir receives the money he wants for the new monastery.
He has asked me to write you this letter and to remind you that the sum needed is five hundred crowns. I know, it is a lot, perhaps more than is necessary even - but if we can pay him off, he'll ensure the Council shows mercy to the boy.
I regard you as a friend, your Majesty, and I hope I've not crossed a line with this letter. Anwir has been less than kind to you as of late and I wish that this sorry incident had never occured.