text: Wulf sipped his ale as the man sitting across from him threw back cup after cup. He was fat, and his face grew redder and redder with each swig. His words flowed with the beer, and Wulf was glad he had followed his instincts and trailed the man after he left Bishop Osfrid's chambers. It turned out that the fat man was his cook. Like most men, the cook liked to drink, and he particularly liked to drink when someone else paid for the beer.
  
  "What does your master prefer to eat?" Wulf said, raising his voice just enough to be audible above the tavern noise.
  
  The cook blinked a few times. "Why, everything," he said, a little puzzled. "He likes eels best of all. Eats them every fast day and plenty of other days besides." He hiccoughed.
  
  "I don't like them, but then, I've never had one of yours."
  
  "They can be tricky little things," the cook said, and then he leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially. "I like to cover them with flour and a little salt and then fry them. Just fry them. They have a pleasing taste, at least if they're fresh, and you don't want to mask that."
  
  Wulf nodded and took another sip. The cook was swaying in his seat now, and he judged the time was right. "I've heard that the king's priest is dead."
  
  The cook scratched his nose. "Yes, his throat cut open like a pig's. He was more than Alfred's confessor, though; he was his right-hand man. The Danes will come and murder us all, likely as not, without old Leofwine here to counsel the king." He looked at his cup philosophically for a moment and then drained it down.
  
  Wulf was about to prod a little more when the cook suddenly spoke again. "He was a kind man, Leofwine was. I made, I made him a meal once, something with beef. I'm nearly sure it was some kind of beef. And he had them call me out of the kitchen and thanked me. Thanked me personally, you understand. King Alfred's right-hand man. I would have liked to cook for him again, but now I'm stuck cooking for Osfrid. He pays me well, of course, but where's the gratitude? I can get silver, and a lot more than Osfrid pays, easily enough."
  
  Wulf nodded, and the cook continued, his voice rising. "In fact, it makes me almost want to tell him off. No more, I'd say, no more frying your eels or roasting your chickens. No more travelling from Sherborne to Winchester every fortnight. No more keeping Osfrid's secrets either. Why, the things I could tell! The other servants whisper things to me, you see, and I remember them. Keep them up here with all the recipes..." He tapped his head, his voice trailing off, then he swayed again and shut his eyes. Wulf could tell he was about to fall asleep.
  
  He had not expected such luck, not on the first night of his search, but now that he was so close it was frustrating that the cook would not keep talking. Secrets were always useful, and if the cook's did not help him catch Leofwine's killer than they would help somehow in the future. He glanced around. The tavern was full, but no one was paying them much attention.
  
  > let him sleep
  Wulf listened to the cook's snores and finished his own cup. It was unlikely that this man knew anything that couldn't wait until morning, and who could say if his drunken ramblings would even be true? It was better to let him sleep. Then, if he needed him again, the cook would remember him fondly. In the morning, he decided, he would find Leofwine's guards, the ones who had sworn no one had entered the priest's room.
  
  But the night was still young, and Wulf felt energized as he left the tavern. The castle sat on the hill above the rest of the city, and he walked slowly towards it. Several guards stood at its gate, torches blazing beside them, and Wulf skirted their light and followed the rough wooden walls of the castle. He stopped after a few minutes, examining the wood, and though there seemed to be nothing special about this spot, he knew it was the right place. He climbed easily, and in a moment, he crouched on the roof and surveyed the tops of the large complex of buildings that made up Alfred's castle.
  
  There was little chance of being spotted, but Wulf took no chances. He crawled slowly across the roof, visualizing what was in each room beneath him. He had only had about an hour to explore before he spoke with Cynehelm, but that was enough time to get the lay of the place. Eventually Wulf reached a chimney and lowered himself down. When he emerged from the fireplace, he smiled, knowing that he had been right. The room was empty, inhabited at one time by an ealdorman or priest, perhaps, but now only gathering dust and giving an easy way inside. It was hardly surprising that Leofwine had been killed, he thought, with a castle as ill-guarded as this one. Of course, there were not, in Wulf's experience, many men like himself, so perhaps it was surprising.
  
  He crept from the empty room and into a corridor. Everything was dark and cold, and the halls were deserted as Wulf walked through the castle. It was mostly wooden, sometimes whitewashed, but he knew that the structure was a patchwork. Alfred and his ancestors had built their newer Saxon sections right onto the remains of the old Roman fort, still with its faded mosaics, and when he stopped by a door it was in one of these Roman areas. The door was plain like all the others, but he was sure it was the right one. It was locked, of course, but he picked his way in in a matter of seconds.
  
  Father Leofwine's room was large but not luxurious. Moonlight streamed through his window and fell on the small bed that sat in one corner and the desk that sat in another. The desk was still piled with the old priest's books and a map of Wessex. There was a table, too, still with a jug of wine and a few glasses. Wulf poured himself a little and sipped as he glanced through the books. Theology and history mostly, and a treatise on Roman law, though most were in Latin and therefore unintelligible. The priest's mind never rested. Wulf could picture him very easily, hunched over in his chair with half a dozen of these books open, his thoughts jumping from the war with the Danes to the problem of free will without any trouble. He would have enjoyed living where the Romans once did, would have enjoyed thinking of the legionaries or administrators that had once shared this room.
  
  A simple gray blanket lay on the bed, and Wulf realized that it was stained in Leofwine's blood. He clenched his fists at the sight and sighed. He was not sure what he had hoped to find, but so far there was nothing unusual in the room, nothing that shed any light on its occupant's murder. The window, which might have explained everything, was far too small for an assassin to fit through. Perhaps he could get something out of the guards in the morning. If not, there were still plenty of leads to pursue. Cynehelm seemed a nervous man, but maybe he would have learned something from one of the king's other councilors.
  
  A yawn escaped Wulf's mouth. It was growing late, and he had had little sleep during his journey to Winchester. The second wind that had come when he left the tavern was gone. Truth be told, he had not had a good night's rest in several months, and though he would never have admitted it, he could tell his weariness was impacting his skills. There might be something here, something important, that he just wasn't noticing because of how tired he felt. But sleep brought its own risks, of course. The killer might come back tomorrow to cover his tracks, and then Wulf would never find the clues he needed. There wasn't any guarantee that there wereclues in Leofwine's room, though, and he doubted he'd find them in this state.
  
  > stay and search
  No, there had to be something in the room, Wulf felt sure of it. He bit his cheek, hard, and that woke him up a little. He pulled the bloody blanket from the bed, but there was nothing underneath but the mattress, lumpy and leaking a little straw. His eyes wandered to the window again. A child might be able to fit through, but they would have to be very young. A child that young couldn't climb down after they got in, either, and they certainly couldn't escape back through the window.
  
  The whitewash on the walls was cracked, and Wulf ran his hand along the rough surface. Just like the castle, he realized, it was a hodgepodge, wood filling in wherever the original Roman tiles and plaster had collapsed. An insect, shiny and black, scuttled across the wall, and Wulf's eyes followed it as it crept down towards the floor and through a crack.
  
  He bent down and examined the hole. It was tiny, not even big enough to put his finger through, but he kept staring long after the insect had disappeared. Then he began to crawl along the wall, looking for other cracks. There were many, and each time Wulf came to one, he pressed against the floor tiles nearby. At last, opposite the window, he felt one slide just a bit beneath his hand. He drew his sword and jammed it into the floor, prying the tile loose. A hole, dark and half a foot across, gaped up at him, and soon he had removed five more tiles to reveal a hole big enough for a man to squeeze into. Try as he might, he could not pry any more tiles away. When he reached into the hole, his fingers could not touch the bottom.
  
  There was still plenty of night left, so Wulf left Leofwine's room and snuck through the corridors again. The walls were lined with torches, though most were unlit, and he grabbed one and lit it as soon as he came to a flame. Further down the corridor, he could hear guards speaking in low voices, but he simply crept back to the room, marveling at how little care they took, even after Leofwine's death.
  
  He dropped the torch right down the hole, and it clattered when it hit the ground, some five feet down. Wulf lowered himself in and then reached up to replace the tiles above him, fumbling in the flickering light and dragging them into their proper places. It took a few minutes, but eventually he shut himself completely away and turned to examine the hidden place.
  
  It was a passageway, narrow and low, and Wulf had to stoop and then crawl as he went along it. It twisted and turned, and even with his sense of direction he soon lost any idea of what might sit above his head. It was covered with tiles too, or what was left of them centuries after the Romans, and he could still make out the simple waves and lines etched into the walls.
  
  Wulf kept walking and walking. His back began to hurt, his eyes stung from the smoke, and his legs grew very heavy. He wanted to curl up right there beneath the ground and sleep, but he knew that whoever might come along before he woke would not be happy to find him, and in this cramped tunnel his sword would be little use.
  
  Eventually the passage stopped, its end simply a clean bit of tiled wall. Much too clean, Wulf saw, and when he pushed against them, the tiles swung slowly out like a door. He clambered out, sword in his hand, but the room he found himself in was as dark and empty as the one he had come from. Waving the torch, he saw boxes and barrels piled around the room. He had just emerged from one, set against the wall right where the tunnel opened. When he swung it shut, the tiles and passageway completely disappeared, and the box looked no different from the dozens of others that sat in heaps all around him. He examined one and forced it open with his sword, but it was only full of grain.
  
  Apart from the passageway, the only way out of the room looked to be a ladder, and Wulf quickly scrambled up it. He found himself in the first floor of a spacious house, still empty, though he could hear someone snoring above. It was sumptuously furnished, with tapestries hanging from the walls and books stacked neatly on the tables. There were scrolls, too, and he bent down to read, but they were only covered in a minute scrawl detailing exactly who the owner of the house had sold grain, wine, and half a dozen other crops to and when. Everything looked just as ordinary once he went outside; the building was wood, well-built but no different from the others that lined the street in this wealthy part of Winchester.
  
  It had been a long day and a long night, and Wulf's mind had plenty to consider as he walked through the empty streets. The castle was quite a distance away, but he had no intention of returning there before morning. Most of the inns he passed were dark, but eventually he came to one with a candle in the window, and from inside he could still hear muted singing. It was smoky, and the barman gave him a suspicious look as he paid for a room, but it would do for a few hours. He settled in to sleep and was out in only a few moments, his short sword still at his side.
  
  > In the morning
  Cynehelm had not slept well, his dreams full of men in black cloaks, heathen Danes with hideous tattoos, and knives at his throat. He woke before dawn and tried to distract himself with work, but the numbers and accounts could not keep him from picturing Leofwine, how he must have looked when they found the corpse.
  
  Cynehelm was no stranger to bloodshed. He had fought beside Alfred in the wars before and had defended his own little fief from raiders, but he never enjoyed it the way that some men did. He wasn't much good as a warrior anyway, and he much preferred to serve the king as he now did. Still, he had seen men cut down and women and children butchered by the Danes, but none of that experience did anything to calm his nerves. There was something about Leofwine and his kindly old face that made it particularly disturbing to imagine the killer carving his throat, and in the heart of the castle too.
  
  So, he busied himself in the tax reports and letters from the king's vassals across Wessex, forcing himself to concentrate on how quickly a certain bridge was being built or whether more silver could be extracted from a particular town without inspiring too much resentment. Cynehelm's worries only grew, however, when his clerk entered midway through the morning to pass along an invitation to eat with Bishop Osfrid. The bishop was unpleasant at the best of times, and they had never been friends, but what really worried Cynehelm was that Wulf wanted him to get information from the king's other councilors. How could he investigate Osfrid, what questions could he ask without making the man suspicious? The invitation was probably just an excuse for Osfrid to do the same to him, and he knew the bishop was far better at this kind of intrigue.
  
  Still, there was nothing to do but go, not if he wanted to obey King Alfred. He arrived at the bishop's chambers a little before noon and was surprised to see Grimbold already sitting at the table. Past sixty and dour, the ealdorman had little time for anything but conducting the king's wars. He only nodded when Cynehelm sat down, but a minute later Osfrid appeared and took his place at the head of the table. He poured some wine.
  
  "To Leofwine," the bishop said, raising his glass, and Cynehelm and Grimbold repeated the toast. It was a good vintage and sweet, and it helped to calm Cynehelm a little. He looked expectantly at Osfrid, who seemed to be thinking over his words carefully.
  
  At last he spoke. "I fear the king is underestimating the danger from Leofwine's murderer. None of our plans against the heathens will do a bit of good if there is a traitor in our midst."
  
  Grimbold drained his cup. "Not much we can do to catch the killer, is there? He's probably been gone since he did the bloody deed."
  
  "Perhaps the one who actually wielded the knife is gone, but I'm sure whoever ordered or paid him is still around. Men are weak, Grimbold. Fear and temptation, that's what explains their behavior. Someone at court is either so afraid of the Danes or else so tempted by their offers of silver or land that he's gone over to their side. Why else would someone murder the saintly Leofwine, who was blameless and served both God and the king tirelessly?"
  
  Cynehelm took another sip of wine and then spoke. "Leofwine was Alfred's greatest servant, his strong right hand. Ambition may have played a role in the traitor's thinking, too. Men have done evil things to advance in rank before."
  
  There was a long, uncomfortable silence. At last the bishop answered. "No doubt the traitor wished to supplant Leofwine, which points to a member of the king's council. It points, gentlemen, to one of us." He paused while a servant brought out the first course, rye bread and bowls of leeks and turnips. When the man had gone, he resumed speaking, picking at the food. "I do not mean to accuse either of you, and I have no reason to be suspicious of you beyond that you are both councilors and important men in Wessex. Either of you might have sided with the Danes or had Leofwine killed to take his place in Alfred's government."
  
  Grimbold swallowed a mouthful. "The same is true of you."
  
  "Indeed, it is, and though I know myself to be innocent of the crime, I know you must both suspect me, at least as much as you suspect the others. I plan to speak with Aldric and Ecgbald too."
  
  The servant came back to take away the dishes, and Cynehelm spoke. "Were you present when Leofwine's guards swore that no one had entered his room?"
  
  Osfrid nodded. "They swore on holy relics in the presence of myself, Alfred, and the queen. Their faces were pale, and their voices unsteady, but I put that down the surprise of finding the man they were guarding butchered in his bed. It would be a shocking thing to lie in such circumstances, but a murder is always shocking, and I rule nothing out. Still, my sense was that they were telling the truth and were just frightened. The queen going off about pagan magic didn't help matters."
  
  The servant returned with a large platter and then another, the first laden with a pile of eels and the second with beef and apples. Grimbold took a large quantity of both and dug in, steadily working his way across the plate while the bishop took a small helping of eels. Cynehelm felt ill just looking at the food, and his mind kept running over his impossible task. Was one of these men guilty, a traitor and murderer, he wondered?
  
  "Have an eel," Osfrid said, and Cynehelm speared one with his dagger and cut it in half. "They have medicinal properties, you know. Just the thing to settle an upset stomach." He raised the bite to his mouth and nearly gagged.
  
  > eat the eel
  He had never been one for seafood, but perhaps the bishop was right. Sipping a little wine, he bit into the eel. It was chewy but not unpleasant, and with a little more wine he soon finished first one and then three more. "Your cook deserves compliments," he said, and the bishop chuckled.
  
  "He is the best in Wessex, fit to cook for Alfred himself, though I'd never give him up."
  
  They talked for a while of food and pleasantries, but eventually Grimbold brought the conversation back to what lurked in Cynehelm's mind. "I don't know anything about catching a traitor," he said bluntly, "but what I know is war. And I know we can't hope to kill the pagans if someone's feeding them our every move. A lot of good men will die if someone doesn't find the murderer." He looked at Osfrid and Cynehelm in turn.
  
  The bishop chuckled again but then looked grim. "We will simply have to do the best we can. God is good, and perhaps he will give us success. If I learn anything else, I will share it with you and with the king, and I urge you to do the same. I must say, you both seeminnocent, though perhaps you're just good liars or I'm a fool."
  
  "God is good," Grimbold repeated, finishing another cup. Osfrid opened his mouth to reply, but then Grimbold coughed, spilling a bit of wine on the table. He waited for the old man to finish, but the coughing did not stop.
  
  "Is he choking?" Cynehelm cried, jumping from his seat. By the time he got to Grimbold, he was pounding his fist against the table, eyes bulging horribly. His face was turning blue and purple, and Osfrid beat against his chest, trying to force whatever was stuck out. But it was no use. He just went on choking until he couldn't choke anymore. The servant ran in, saw Grimbold, and dropped the dishes he was carrying. The shattered on the floor, unnoticed, as Grimbold slumped forward onto the table. He was still twitching, but soon that stopped, too, and he lay still.
  
  They stared at the body for a long moment- the face hideously discolored, the eyes bulged, and the face locked forever in an agonized grimace. Eventually Cynehelm spoke. "Poison." It came out as a whisper, and the servant gasped when he heard it.
  
  "M-mother of God protect us!" said the bishop, still gazing on the dead ealdorman. A few seconds later he whirled to face Cynehelm. "I...I knew nothing of this, you must believe me!" Suddenly he grabbed his hand, his own arm shaking. "I did not murder him!"
  
  Cynehelm felt light-headed. "Your cook," he said at last, "where is your cook?" Osfrid, still mumbling his innocence, glanced at a door, and the servant raced through it at once.
  
  He returned a minute later. "He's gone, my lord."
  
  "Then he must be found," the bishop sputtered out. "Found and questioned. And the king must be told. Something very evil is afoot, Cynehelm. The traitor might have killed all three of us, but God in his mercy protected you and me."
  
  "We only ate the eels," Cynehelm said. "You told me to have them and not the beef."
  
  "I...I knew nothing! You cannot believe I would poison Grimbold!" Osfrid pleaded again.
  
  Cynehelm stared at the corpse. He had coughed up bits of food in his final minutes, and the sight almost made him vomit. The bishop looked just as sick, covered in sweat and trembling. "We must tell the king," Cynehelm said mechanically, and the two men turned to do so. "Let no one in and do not touch the body," he instructed the servant.
  
  Osfrid stopped the first guard they passed and described the cook. "He can't have gotten far, he's quite fat," he said. "Find him and bring him to the dungeon on suspicion of murder." The guard bowed, and a few minutes later they were at the chapel. "He cannot be disturbed while he is at prayer," the bishop said uncertainly, but then the door swung open.
  
  Alfred emerged, followed by the queen. Ealhswith was thin and lovely as always, her face framed by golden curls, but her cheeks looked very hollow and her blue eyes were ringed with red. They bowed first to the king and then to her. "What news?" he said, sounding tired.
  
  "Grimbold is dead. Poisoned in front of us at the bishop's table," Cynehelm said.
  
  "God help us all," said the king softly. "And you are both alright?" They nodded, and Alfred sighed. "Grimbold was a good man, and Wessex will bleed without him. We would have bled regardless, but this is dire news."
  
  "My lord," stammered Osfrid, "I knew nothing of the poison. My cook is missing, but when we track him down, we will make him reveal everything. Grimbold will be avenged, and Leofwine, too."
  
  The king touched the bishop's shoulder. "Relax. I do not suspect your hand in either murder."
  
  "The ways of God are mysterious," said the queen sadly, squeezing her book of hours. "How easily any of us might die. We must think on our sins and be thankful that Grimbold died in the faith of Christ."
  
  "Yes, love," Alfred agreed. "And Leofwine as well. Osfrid, go and supervise the search for the cook. You have your own men-at-arms, I believe. Send them to search every house in Winchester and tell my guards to lock the city gates. No one is to leave, not until the cook is found." The bishop bowed again and departed, and then the king turned to Cynehelm. "I do not suspect the bishop, if only because it would take a great fool to be so obvious in eliminating a rival, but I cannot say that I wholly trust him. I take it you have had no luck?"
  
  "Only bad luck," he replied. Grimbold's face kept popping into his head, wrinkled and full of pain.
  
  Alfred nodded. "It has only been a day. Keep looking and questioning. I hope you have a good man to aid you." Cynehelm thought of Wulf and wondered where he was. "I must find Aldric and Ecgbald. They will have to take Grimbold's place and plan for the war, though we will miss his experience and bravery." And what if Aldric or Ecgbald is the traitor?Cynehelm thought, but he bowed as the king left. Perhaps he would go to look for Wulf, though he had little hope of finding him.
  
  But Queen Ealhswith held out her hand to stop him from going. "Murder is a terrible crime, Cynehelm," she said quietly, tears forming in her eyes. "I did not know Grimbold well, but Leofwine was my friend. One of my oldest friends, and my confessor since I was a girl. He was the one who first taught me my prayers, taught me about our Lord's passion, about repentance and the forgiveness of sins."
  
  "We will catch the murderer, my lady" Cynehelm mumbled, but he could tell she was not really listening.
  
  "There is evil magic at work here, I can feel it every time I leave the chapel. It preys on me, Cynehelm. It prays on all of us! I am afraid I have a demon, that the heathens have cursed me and the kingdom. My sins are very great, and the wages of sin is death. It is my fault- you must believe me! Who will be the next to die?" she wailed.
  
  It was strange, but the queen's hysteria cleared Cynehelm's mind for the first time since he had heard of Leofwine's death. He held her hand for a while, and eventually she stopped crying and dried her eyes. "You are not to blame, my lady, only the killer is. I will do all I can," he promised.
  
  The queen nodded and bit her lip. "God will see justice done." She shut her eyes. "May He have mercy on us all."
  
  > In another part of the castle
  It took Wulf some time to find the guards' chambers, and he didn't have much of a plan for what to do when he got there. A sentry stood in the corridor outside, but when Wulf said, "I'm on the king's business," he nodded and stepped aside. Inside he found half a dozen guards, two dozing, one sharpening a sword, and the others clustered around a table. No one paid him much attention, and he saw why- the guards at the table were gambling.
  
  He pulled up a chair without invitation. "I've silver to spare and haven't had a good game in ages," he said warmly, and the man next to him laughed and slapped him on the back. They played for a while, but while the others' eyes were on the dice, Wulf's roamed from man to man. Had one of them been standing guard when Leofwine was killed? Did any of them know more than they had let on?
  
  Wulf was strategic, and he played poorly enough to give away some silver while still making it a good game. After about twenty minutes, someone produced a leather pouch, and they took turns gulping mead. "Don't none of you tell the chief, now!" one shouted as he spilled mead into his beard. Wulf had a little, savoring the sweetness.
  
  He judged it was time. "Bad business about the priest."
  
  The bearded man whistled. "You don't know the half of it. Leofwine got off lucky compared to us. That bastard Ecgbald came down here yesterday shouting bloody murder..."
  
  Someone sniggered. "Bloody murder."
  
  "Shut up, Odda. As I said, Ecgbald was damn near ready to kill Wighere and Cutheard himself. Gross incompetence, he called it, to let a man get his throat slit when you're supposed to be keeping guard. He had a point, but they never were the cleverest fellows. Anyway, the chief didn't like that and told Ecgbald so, so the bastard went off on him, too. Said he'd have him strung up. Well, the chief wasn't going to take that, but he couldn't do much until Ecgbald left."
  
  "What did he want?" Wulf asked.
  
  "Oh, he just kept saying he would throw them in the dungeon till they talked, but the chief wouldn't let him, not without orders from the king. Our chief's a smart bastard, though. He sent them away, right when Ecgbald left, to join the scouts watching for the Danes. He can't get his hands on them now."
  
  Ill-luck again. "So they're far from Winchester?"
  
  The bearded man laughed. "They'd better be, but as I said, neither Wighere nor Cutheard was ever much of a thinker. I wouldn't be surprised if they got lost riding to the city gate. Mind you, even an imbecile should be able to guard a door, but maybe I'm overestimating their abilities. Now come on, throw the dice, and let me take more of your silver."
  
  > Track Wighere and Cutheard
  Those two guards were the key, the others didn't matter. Even if Leofwine's killer had come through the hidden passageway, they still might have heard something, and perhaps they had stood guard outside his room before. They might know more about the man's doing- who his enemies were, whether he had feared for his life. Of course, it was also possible they had killed him, though Wulf was nearly sure that the secret tunnel was how the murderer had entered the room.
  
  "I've lost enough coin as it is," Wulf said with a chuckle. "I thank you gentlemen for the game and mead, but duty calls."
  
  He stood, and the bearded man nodded. "Come back anytime. I get bored just beating these fools."
  
  Wulf made his way out of the guards' chambers and through the corridors. The halls were mostly empty, and the sentries at the gate gave him no trouble as he left the castle. He walked down the hill and to the town proper, heading for a small stable he had passed the day before. It sat near the inn where he had spoken with the cook, and Wulf briefly considered trying to find the man. But, as tempting as the bishop's mysterious secrets were, it was Wighere and Cutheard who had the best chance of shedding light on Leofwine's murder.
  
  The stablemaster was middle-aged and had a shock of blond hair that he scratched every few seconds. "Of course I have horses," he said in response to Wulf's question. "But what are you willing to pay?"
  
  Wulf was by no means short on silver, but he knew that finding the guards would be difficult and that money would come in handy. "What's your cheapest horse?"
  
  The man pointed to an old mare, gray and speckled white. "Twenty pieces of silver."
  
  "No more than eight."
  
  The man grunted. "Fifteen is a fair price."
  
  Wulf nearly laughed at the blatant lie. The poor creature whinnied softly, and he felt her mane. "Twelve."
  
  "Twelve it is, but fifteen will get you a saddle and the rest." Wulf nodded, and a minute later he sauntered out of the stable and towards the city gate. The mare was timid, but she seemed to gain strength as they left the cramped stalls behind. He regarded the streets as they passed, glancing at each house and shop. It would be good to leave Winchester behind and travel in the open country, away from hidden passageways and from the site of his old friend's death.
  
  Someone was shouting up ahead, and Wulf recognized a thin, ugly guard from the gambling table. "We are looking for a murderer!" he announced to the peasants and shopkeepers nearby. "Fat and red-faced, a cook. There will be a reward if he is found and no mercy if he is concealed." He caught Wulf's eye but paid him no mind, continuing down the street.
  
  Wulf saw other guards and men-at-arms as he approached the gate, all repeating the same message and questioning the townsfolk. A cluster of them stood by the gatehouse, swords and spears drawn, and they glared when he drew near.
  
  "No one may leave Winchester until further notice," their captain said, his eyes narrowing on Wulf's tattered cloak and old horse. "We're looking for a murderer."
  
  "Father Leofwine's killer?" he asked.
  
  The captain had already turned away to talk to someone else, but at Wulf's words he swung back. "No, not Father Leofwine, not that it's any business of yours. Lord Grimbold is dead, a great ealdorman and one of the king's chief councilors, and Bishop Osfrid's cook is the one that done it, more likely than not. Now bugger off before I put that sick animal out of its misery."
  
  Wulf turned slowly and set off the way he had come. Another councilor dead, and the jolly cook with all the secrets the prime suspect. Wighere and Cutheard would have to wait, unless he tried to sneak out of the city, but chasing down the two guards suddenly seemed less important. The traitor must still be in Winchester, and if the cook was his agent, then he might have others. Cynehelm might know something about the murder, and he would certainly know more about the dead ealdorman.
  
  But how to speak with Cynehelm? The castle would be locked down, no doubt, so he could hardly enter through the front gate. He could always try clambering up the wall and down through the chimney again, but the guards would probably be watching more closely than they had before. The tunnel was another possibility, but it had its own risks. Breaking into an upstanding merchant's house might be difficult in broad daylight, and if he were caught underground there would be no way to flee.
  
  > try the chimney
  It had always worked before, and Wulf knew that if he was careful it would work again. Besides, the guards were presumably more interested in searching the castle and stopping anyone from leaving than in keeping people out. He trotted back to the stable and left the mare, and he did not even protest when the blond stablemaster demanded a piece of silver just to watch the beast for the day. "This is a stable, not an inn!" he shouted as Wulf left. "I'll sell the beast again if you don't claim her in a few days!"
  
  Wulf took a circuitous route up the hill and to the castle, so that he emerged very close to the easy climbing spot. Glancing around and seeing no guards, he climbed, quickly coming to the roof and then lying flat, his body nearly invisible to anyone below. After a minute, he began to crawl, staying as close to the wood as possible. It took a long time, but eventually he came to the chimney and then stood, putting one leg down the shaft and preparing to descend.
  
  "There's someone up there!" a voice yelled from below, and a moment later an arrow flew by, a foot above Wulf's head. With no time to think, he scrambled down, almost losing his grip and tumbling into the fireplace. The room was empty, but he darted straight for the door, and from there took off running down the corridor. It took a moment to get his bearings, but soon he was headed for Cynehelm's chambers. He passed many people, mostly women and old men, all of whom gave him a wide berth and wore frightened, anxious expressions.
  
  Wulf was almost there when the guards spotted him. "That's the one!" one of them shouted, and he fled, three men chasing him as everyone else dove out of the way. "You can't escape!" they called, but Wulf kept running. If he could just put some distance between him and the guards and make it to Leofwine's room, perhaps he could get out through the tunnel.
  
  Thankfully, Wulf did not encounter any other guards as he ran, but the ones chasing him were not far behind. He came eventually to the older, Roman part of the castle, and he knew that Leofwine's room was not far away. Even if he could reach it, though, he still had to move half a dozen tiles before he could fit through the passageway. It was no use.
  
  Rounding a corner, he stopped suddenly and drew his short sword. The first guard practically ran into the blade, and Wulf only had to force it in a little deeper before he sank to his knees. The other two heard his groans and crept around the corner, their own swords leading the way. Wulf met his blades with theirs, and for a few moments the fight was even. He was outnumbered, but they were mediocre warriors, and the sight of their dead companion, blood seeping from his chest onto the floor, seemed to unnerve them. Wulf nearly cut into one's neck, but the other parried the blow at the last second.
  
  That was his best chance, and after that, they slowly forced him back until he was almost touching the tiled wall. Still, Wulf fought on, blocking their swords and striking back with all his strength. "Yield," said the guard through clenched teeth, but Wulf did not answer.
  
  They caught him with a lucky blow and sent his sword clattering away. "We'll soon find out who you are," the one said, reaching roughly for his arm, but the other did not seem to hear him. He brought down his sword savagely, cleaving right into Wulf's skull and tearing through his brain. His companion turned to him, his face a mixture of shock and anger. "They wanted him alive."
  
  The other guard stared down at Wulf, breathing heavily. "He killed Egbert," he muttered. The first guard shook his head. Wulf, of course, did not notice any of this. He was dead the instant the blade entered his brain, even before his body sunk to the floor, his tattered cloak soaked in his own blood.