The King's Hounds (The King's Hounds series Book 1) by Martin Jensen

Author:Martin Jensen [Jensen, Martin]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: AmazonCrossingEnglish
Published: 2013-10-29T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

The last time I had felt so dumb was many years before, when my father—with barely concealed glee—dismissed a farm girl’s claim that I was supposedly the father of the baby she was expecting.

After grilling me thoroughly, he laughed the girl out the door, telling her that it wasn’t going to be that easy to get her hands on a nobleman’s silver. Then he chewed me out in front of Harding and several of his pals for not knowing that cuddling with a girl is not enough to get her pregnant.

“Open your eyes, boy!” my father said condescendingly. “You’ve seen bulls and stallions and boars and dogs. You ought to know that unless the cock really plunges in properly, there’s not going to be a calf, foal, pig, or puppy.”

I was only sixteen winters old, with nothing more than peach fuzz on my face, when my father and brother had mocked me for not knowing how a man lies with a woman. I had just been thoroughly trounced once again, standing before this Saxon lady, and my ears were every bit as red now as they had been then.

“My … my lady …” I stammered. “Forgive my blunder.”

Her gray eyes shone, not from tears, as I had feared at first, but evidently from amusement. Her bosom rose and fell the way it would in someone doing everything they could to keep themselves from laughing.

“Maybe things would have turned out better if I had been his mistress,” she said, reaching up and wiping her eyes with a pale hand.

“My lady?” I asked, trying with all my might to recover from my own foolishness.

She didn’t respond. Instead, she stared attentively at me and then asked, “The king asked you to investigate my brother’s murder?”

“Yes, yes, I know,” I sighed. “You and your family are convinced that Cnut ordered Osfrid’s death.”

“I don’t really care what my family thinks,” she said, her voice suddenly surprisingly steely. “As far as I’m concerned, my brother is dead and that’s the end of it.”

It occurred to me that a conversation with Osfrid’s sister might be just as helpful as one with his mistress, so I looked around for somewhere we could talk. The stall before us appeared to be much better stocked than Alfred’s—obviously not all merchants were being charged the large share of the heregeld that Alfred was. Behind the stall, I spotted three tables with benches.

“Let me buy you a drink to make up for putting my foot in my mouth,” I offered.

Estrid eyed me, her amusement only barely concealed. “Or in exchange for information.”

“My lady,” I said, holding out my hand to her. “I would gladly buy you a tankard for both of those reasons.”

She raised her own soft hand, gave mine a squeeze, and then—to my astonishment—led the way and sat down at an empty table. A stooped carpenter, his apron strewn with wood shavings, was seated at one of the other two tables with a young man who I guessed was probably his son or apprentice, because his clothes were also covered with sawdust.

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