“You’ll find him at home this time of year,” said Theodberht. “The wild horses are hungry. He puts out hay and they come to him.”
“Thanks.”
A mile or so farther on they came to Ulf’s fenced corral. The mastiff tied up by the gate did not bark, but the horses neighed, and soon Ulf and his wife, Wyn, came out of the house. As Edgar hadremembered, Ulf was a slight man with muscles like ropes, somewhat shorter than his wife. Both had dirty faces and hands. Edgar remembered that Wyn had had a brother, called Begstan, who had died around the time Edgar and his family moved to Dreng’s Ferry. Dreng had been suspicious about the death, because the body had not been buried at the minster.
The sheriff’s men surrounded them, and Den said to Ulf: “I’ve been told that you’re Ironface.”
“You been told wrong,” said Ulf. Edgar sensed that he was telling the truth about that but hiding some other knowledge.
Den told the men to search the place.
Wigbert said to Ulf: “You’d better tie that mastiff up close to the fence, because if he goes for one of my people I’ll put my spear through his chest faster than you can blink.”
Den shortened the rope so that the mastiff could not move more than a few inches.
They searched the ramshackle house. Wigbert came out with a chest and said: “He’s got more money than you’d think—there’s four or five pounds of silver in here, I’d say.”
Ulf said: “My life savings. That’s twenty years of hard work, that is.”
It might be true, Edgar thought. In any event the sum of money was not really enough to prove criminality.
Two men with shovels walked around the outside of the corral, scanning the ground for signs of a place where Ulf might have buried something. They jumped the fence and did the same inside the corral, making the wild horses retreat nervously. They found nothing.
Den began to look frustrated. Speaking quietly to Wigbert and Edgar, he said: “I don’t believe Ulf is innocent.”
“Not innocent, no,” said Edgar. “But he’s not Ironface. Seeing him again makes me sure.”
“So why do you say he’s not innocent?”
“Just a hunch. Perhaps he knows who Ironface is.”
“I’m going to arrest him anyway. But I wish we’d found something incriminating.”
Edgar looked around. Their house was ramshackle, with a sagging roof and holes in the wattle-and-daub walls; but Wyn looked well fed and her coat was fur-lined. The pair were not poor, just slovenly.
Edgar looked at the mastiff’s shelter. “Ulf is kind to his dog,” he said. Not many people bothered to keep the rain off a guard dog. Frowning, he went closer. The mastiff growled a threat, but he was securely tied. Edgar took his Viking ax from his belt.
Ulf said: “What are you doing?”
Edgar did not reply. With a few blows of the ax he demolished the dog’s shelter. Then he used the blade to excavate the ground beneath. After a few minutes his ax rang on something metal.
He knelt by the hole he had dug and began to scoop out the mud with his hands. Slowly the round outline of a rusty iron object began to emerge. “Ah,” he said as he recognized the shape.
Den asked: “What is it?”
Edgar pulled the object out of the hole and held it up triumphantly. “Ironface’s helmet,” he announced.
“That settles it,” said Den. “Ulf is Ironface.”
Ulf said: “I’m not, I swear!”
Edgar said: “It’s true. He’s not.”
“Then who does the helmet belong to?” asked Den.
Ulf hesitated.
“If you won’t say, it’s you.”
