“As I have heard it, your father Harold was found dead with his horse and one of his men near Derrington. ’Twas no ordinary scene of war or thievery.”

“Aye. On his belly and unshriven,” Dirick spat, heedless of the breadcrumbs that sprayed into his wine. “His throat was slit deep, through to the spine. Someone had arranged it so that his head pulled back, leaving his face to look up at the heavens.” Anger and nausea rolled deep within him, simmering and bubbling from where he’d kept it tucked away for days.

“And his body was arranged thusly with another victim, hand to hand, belly to ground, face to the sky, as well,” Henry continued. His voice had lost its friendly boom and become hard. “’Tis a madman, and your father’s death was the third such instance in two summers.”

Dirick swallowed hard, and the lump of bread stuck in his throat. He gulped wine to soften it and warm his suddenly shivering body again. “More? There are more of these slaughterings?”

“Aye.” Of a sudden, the king looked as weary as Dirick felt. “I have summoned you with such haste because I do not wish there to be a fourth instance. You may fulfill your need for vengeance and mine own desires at the nonce, and with my blessing.”

The realization that he did not have to beg to be released from Henry’s service to find his father’s killer lightened Dirick’s weary shoulders. His prayers had been answered. “Many thanks, my liege. You have granted me the only boon I should ask of you.”

Henry nodded once, as if to agree, and Dirick shoved a hunk of crusty yellow cheese into his mouth. “You will leave on the morrow—or the one following, if you desire a day of rest before setting out on your quest. You have my permission to travel where you wish to run this killer to the ground, but one small task you must first complete.