Oathbreaker (The King's Hounds series) Page 5

  “Like most high-ranking monks,” Wulfgar said. “He was a nobleman by birth, and I guess you can’t set aside your upbringing just because you swap your cloak for a cowl.”

  I cocked my head and studied Wulfgar’s face, but it was calm, and there was no derision in his voice.

  “For example, he doesn’t tolerate being disobeyed,” Wulfgar said, now with levity in his voice. “Oh, how he raged after your master turned him down.”

  “Yes,” I said, swallowing a chunk of fat. “It’s never pleasant to be put in your place.”

  Wulfgar chuckled. He was obviously enjoying the memory of the prior being on the losing end. Then he leaned over to me.

  “And yet,” he said, “after all that, you’re here anyway?”

  “Your master isn’t the only one with strange ways,” I said. “Mine is always changing his mind depending on his mood. The prior struck the wrong note in that meadow, but when Winston had a chance to think it over, he realized he could use the money.”

  I didn’t care if the soldier believed my explanation, but he did seem to have given some thought to the issue.

  “I heard that your master was a prosperous man,” he said.

  I looked at him with one eyebrow raised.

  “So perhaps it’s not the profit that motivates him,” Wulfgar said, taking the ale jug and pouring more for both of us.

  “That’s what he told me, anyway,” I said shrugging. Neither of us said anything, so I decided to turn the conversation back to Prior Edmund. “But noble-born, you said this Edmund is?”

  “Aren’t they all?” Wulfgar replied. “Abbots, bishops, priors. A farmer’s son like me can become a monk if he wants to, but to lead monks or clergymen, you have to come from a noble family.”

  “Maybe I know his family?” I said. It was always good to know as much as possible about people, especially the ones who thought they were your superiors.

  “I don’t know if you’d know them. North of Watling Street they’re not unknown. Edmund’s father was Edgar, son of Edwin, and the family has owned land up by the border with the Scots for many generations.”

  “So Edmund’s family is Saxon,” I said. “And they still have some power up there?”

  “Noblemen are noblemen first and foremost,” Wulfgar said, giving me a look that was hard to interpret. “Only after that are they Saxons or Danes. And the answer is yes. Edmund’s brother is Jarl Erik’s trusted man.”

  We drank for a bit in silence; then I decided I might as well take advantage of his talkativeness.

  “And what about the subprior?” I asked. “Is he also of noble birth?”

  “Simon?” Wulfgar chuckled. “Or should I say Harold—as he was called before he crawled into his cowl. He’s the son of a Saxon priest whose church is in western Mercia. Simon is the conscience of the monastery.”

  I gave him a quizzical look.

  “Prior Edmund and Abbot Elsin both think that the Peterborough monastery needs to become large and powerful to prove the greatness of God,” Wulfgar said. “They’ve gone about acquiring amazing altar cloths, tapestries woven with gold thread, and, well, lavishly illuminated books—all of those things are supposed to show the glory of God. That’s how noblemen think, you know? Simon, on the other hand, believes God doesn’t want to be honored with gold or silver. He would prefer for the monastery to use its wealth ‘feeding the hungry, curing the sick, and soothing the suffering,’ as he says.”

  Wulfgar paused when he noticed me shaking my head.

  “You don’t believe me?” he asked.

  “Sure, of course, but that doesn’t add up. Simon was the one who threatened Winston back in that Oxford meadow.”

  “Oh yes,” Wulfgar said, laughing loudly. “It actually adds up quite nicely. These are all monastery men, and to them any monastery—but, let me add, especially their own monastery—is the noblest entity in the world. So whether they believe God is best glorified by gold and gems or by helping the needy, no one had better cross them. The abbot and the prior believe they speak for God. By opposing Prior Edmund, your illuminator defied Our Lord himself. And Simon doesn’t let that kind of thing go unpunished.”

  “But that’s just what Winston did,” I said, puzzled. After all, Winston hadn’t been punished.

  Wulfgar gave me a vaguely pitying look.

  “Didn’t you just tell me that he changed his mind?” Wulfgar said. “If you ask Simon, he’ll say your Winston did not change his own position. God changed it for him. And you can be sure that Simon also expects that Winston has learned a thing or two about humility, having been schooled by the Good Lord himself.”

  I smiled. I was rather looking forward to seeing what would happen when those two should come up against each other again.

  Chapter 6

  I slept well. Better, I’m confident, than if I’d been lying in that hall with all those folk. People always come and go in a nobleman’s hall, all night long. Snoring and snorting erupt from the sleeping benches, men have to piss in the middle of the night, and guards clatter their weapons when starting a new shift.

  After I bade Wulfgar good night, I pissed good and long until I was sure I’d emptied out the ale he had generously offered me. Then I retrieved my cape from my saddlebag next to the horse paddock.

  A full harvest moon hung golden over the treetops on the far side of the road to the west, and the usual muffled ruckus came from inside the hall, from men who’d eaten their fill of the thane’s meat and drunk his ale until their thirst was quenched. Apart from that, a peaceful stillness had settled over the village.

  A hay cart sat outside a freshly thatched house, so I crawled under it, wrapped myself in my cloak, and fell asleep with the sound of the grasshoppers in my ears.

  When I awoke, the sun was between the trees to the east, and a sleepy-looking maiden was walking across the small fenced-in croft that belonged to the thatched house. My eyes followed her until she reached a sheepfold, where she squatted down with her back to me and pulled up her skirt. What I saw of her white backside made me wish I could see more of her body, which was sensibly encased in the gray clothes that told me she was some type of serf.

  On her way back, she spotted me and my lustful eyes and gave me a teasing wink. Then she walked back inside with a playful little swivel of her hips.

  I walked over to the sheepfold for my own morning piss and then continued through the square’s dewy grass to the stream, which ran just outside the palisade surrounding the village. I pulled off my shirt and waded out into the water, where I dunked my whole torso. Shivering from the cold, I climbed back onto the bank and started rubbing my arms.

  I was warm and dry by the time I returned to my hay-cart lair. I dressed and strapped on my sword belt before heading to the hall.

  The guard willingly opened the door for me, and after my eyes adjusted to the darkness and my nose to the stuffiness of a shut-in room full of sleeping men, I spotted Winston sitting at a long table, gobbling porridge. He grunted good morning and made some space next to him. A girl promptly placed an earthenware bowl in front of me. The sweet aroma of honey wafted up. The bowl was followed by a tankard of ale, and soon my belly was full of oatmeal and my mouth was satisfyingly malted.

  Winston reported that he’d slept extremely well, but he needed to get some fresh air after being shut in for the night with “so many deep breathers.” So we headed out into the morning, which was no longer as quiet as it had been when I entered the hall.

  We heard voices from the paddock designated for the visitors’ mounts, where Wulfgar and his colleagues were saddling up the monks’ mules. The many wayfarers were also noisy as they broke camp. They knew how important it was to be ready the instant the prior swung himself up into his saddle, and they didn’t want to be left behind.

  Winston put his hands on the small of his back, stretched and took a deep breath, exhaled, stuck his arms out straight sideways, inhaled again, and then suddenly smiled at me.

  “There, now
the day can begin,” he said.

  “Speak for yourself,” I retorted. “For some of us it began in the stream a couple of hours ago.” I was already heading toward our horses.

  Winston shivered.

  “Leif is a generous man,” he said. “He has his girls bring guests warm water to wash with.”

  I left it up to Winston to load his paraphernalia onto Atheling, who eyed me peevishly. I saddled the gray mare and my own mount and then led them out of the paddock and tied them to a fence pole to wait. I sat down to wait for the monks to say farewell to Thane Leif.

  It wasn’t long before the thane and Prior Edmund appeared in the doorway. Edmund stopped as soon as he was out on the grass, held out his hand, and apparently politely thanked the thane for the night’s shelter before striding decisively over to Wulfgar with Simon in tow, the latter’s face hidden under the hood of his cowl.

  The emergence of the monks was the sign the wayfarers had been waiting for. They quickly flocked onto the lawn in a particular order: first the mounted merchants, then the peddlers in their sturdy shoes, then the landless families on their way to what they hoped would be a brighter future, and finally the slovenly poor and other riffraff, including the one-eyed and handless.

  Among these, I happened to notice a broad-shouldered man with a beard. He held his head down like someone ashamed of his condition. He wore the leather tunic and buckskin breeches of a soldier and carried a long package on his back that I decided contained a sword, presumably the last relic of his former life, which I expected he would cling to as long as possible. A nobleman who has fallen as far as a person can fall will let hunger ravage his gut for many days before he parts with his sword.

  Wulfgar led the prior’s mule forward, helped the two monks into their saddles, and handed them their reins before nodding at three of his men to lead the way north. We fell in behind: first Wulfgar, the only spearman traveling on horseback, followed by the two monks, riding side by side. Then came Winston, who led Atheling while I rode at his side, and then the rest of the monks’ spearmen, followed by the motley crowd. All told, there were close to sixty people stretching out into a procession a good arrowshot in length, with those at the very back eager to keep up and stay as close as possible to the spearmen.

  It was a clear day with blue skies and a sun that quickly warmed the dry ground, so I was glad to be on horseback and not walking in the swirling dust kicked up by all the hooves and feet. Prior Edmund had his mule maintain a good, steady pace, but he looked back at regular intervals to make sure that everyone was keeping up. So I was correct that he took his duty to care for the poor quite seriously.

  Winston rode in silence while I enjoyed the day’s warmth and light. I noted Wulfgar’s vigilance and was satisfied with his expertise. He continually scanned the countryside ahead of us and to the sides, and he looked back at regular intervals as well.

  Our trail cut through the woods, and occasionally we spotted smoke from one of the small, adjacent villages. At one point we heard someone working with an ax, and occasionally we would pass scattered, already harvested fields, where a swineherd would let his drove root around in the stubble. The swineherds eyed us with curiosity, but the sight of the monks always seemed to reassure them. None of them ever decided to run away and leave the pigs to fend for themselves.

  Just as the sun reached its zenith, we arrived at a small village called Syresham. The farmers kindly let us rest on their green for a while and brought ale to the two monks. They permitted the rest of us to buy ourselves a couple of tankards if we wished.

  We stayed long enough that even the rabble looked rested. Then we climbed back into our saddles and rode on through the shady woods, the sun no longer directly overhead.

  Wulfgar returned from a short ride ahead and told Edmund that we were approaching Watling Street’s crossing over the River Tove. Suddenly we heard yelling and shouting from behind us. I turned my head and saw a band of armed men, weapons out, charging at the peddlers, who were screaming at the top of their lungs to get Wulfgar’s attention.

  Wulfgar bellowed an order, and his spearmen lowered their weapons and rushed back to fight off the attackers. I grabbed the hilt of my sword next to my pommel, unsheathed it, and dug my heels into the horse’s sides, yanking on the reins to turn the animal around. Then I rushed back down the trail.

  I had to ride in an arc around the spearmen and noticed to my joy that my mount willingly followed the pressure commands from my knees. The horse didn’t show the least sign of fear as we hurtled toward the armed men.

  Ahead I saw a redheaded outlaw fleeing after he had managed to rip a leather sack away from one of the peddlers. I brought my horse up to his left, swung my sword down with a whoosh, and passed the man’s body before his head had even struck the ground.

  Behind me to the left I saw the spearmen catching up with the bandits, who—like the man I’d just dispatched to eternity—were running away after grabbing what they could hold from their victims. A spear whistled through the air—apparently the monks’ soldiers were strong—and another bandit fell to the ground. I got my horse up to speed again and rode forward in front of the fleeing thieves. I saw Wulfgar come thundering in from the other side with his spear lowered. A press of my knee sent my horse to the right. Wulfgar skewered a screaming bandit as I slammed my sword down into the shoulder of one scoundrel, who bellowed loudly. The blade bit in and stuck, so I had to let go. I turned my horse with a frustrated growl and leaped out of my saddle. I gripped my sword and twisted it free of the man I’d struck down, who lay screaming before me. Then I slit his throat in one slice.

  The robbers who were still alive around me yelled as the spearmen closed in on them.

  “Wulfgar!” I bellowed. From his horse he turned to me with a smile on his face and a spear in his hand. “Take one of them alive!”

  He nodded and then I realized to my delight that my gelding was standing calmly only a few paces ahead of me. I reached out and grabbed the reins and got back into the saddle again.

  The spearmen were looking for the last of the outlaws, who were trying to escape into the woods. I saw only one of the thieves still nearby, swinging an ax at a swordsman. The swordsman was the bearded soldier I’d noticed that morning.

  From the way the soldier avoided the swinging ax and maneuvered his opponent around, I could tell he wasn’t a bad swordsman. Then I heard Wulfgar yell to him that he should make sure just to wound the outlaw. The bearded soldier feinted at the outlaw’s chest. The outlaw fell for the trick and whacked his ax down, trying to parry the sword away, but then suddenly the sword wasn’t there anymore. Instead the soldier swung it in from the left in a formidable backhand swing, slicing into the bandit’s unprotected neck.

  Suddenly it was quiet around us. No screaming, no yelling for mercy, just the agitated voices of the peddlers, hurriedly inventorying their wares to find out what they were missing.

  Wulfgar rode up to me and dismounted.

  “Do we have any of them alive?” I asked him.

  He shook his head and looked despondently from the dead man in front of him to the soldier who’d slain him.

  “I asked you to spare his life,” Wulfgar chastised the soldier.

  The bearded man shrugged and then bent down to wipe his blade on the dead man’s clothes. I noted that he had a beautiful old sword—the kind our Saxon forefathers had forged back in the day—with a silver ring on the hilt.

  Wulfgar shook his head.

  “It might have been nice to know if they were just a pack of roadside brigands or if there was something more organized afoot,” Wulfgar explained to the soldier, who just stared back at him.

  “Do you understand me?” Wulfgar asked. He clearly wasn’t sure why the soldier had disobeyed his order.

  The bearded man nodded.

  “You could at least do me the courtesy of responding, then,” Wulfgar said sternly.

  I put my hand on the man’s arm to take the edge off Wulfgar’s scolding
.

  The man pulled his arm free, brought his hand up before his mouth, and shook his head.

  “You’re mute?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “But you can hear?”

  Another nod. Then his lips slid apart and he showed me his tongueless mouth.

  Chapter 7

  Wulfgar and I turned away from the mute man.

  “Just let him be,” I urged quietly.

  Wulfgar glanced over his shoulder at the man and then nodded. “Let’s see how badly we were hit.”

  I surveyed the group. Silence prevailed among all the wayfarers following us. The riffraff stood in a joyful huddle, glad to be alive, but shaken. Prior Edmund stood in his stirrups and looked back down the line at us.

  Two bodies lay in the grass. A pool of blood spread beneath one of them, a merchant, and it didn’t take much looking to determine that the man was dead.

  The other body sat up, cursing, just as we reached him. He clutched his bloody arm and spat angrily in the grass, looking up at us. He was one of the peddlers.

  “Some protection you’re providing!” the man complained.

  Wulfgar gave him a testy look and countered, “Did you by chance enter into some sort of agreement for protection from my master, the prior?”

  The peddler bit his tongue.

  “Come on, the prior’s waiting,” Wulfgar commanded me.

  It didn’t even occur to me to retort that I was Winston’s man, not the prior’s. I just followed Wulfgar, satisfied I had proved that I was his natural equal.

  “Well?” Edmund asked, looking down at us from his mule.

  “One merchant killed,” Wulfgar said, handing his sword to one of his men, who started wiping the blood from the tip with a cloth.

  “You didn’t see them coming?” a disgruntled voice asked.

  I turned to see Subprior Simon scowling at me from his horse, but didn’t feel like clarifying that that wasn’t my job; I wasn’t one of his hired spearmen.

  “They struck after we passed,” Wulfgar said, as though explaining the obvious to an idiot.