Secret Murder: Who Shall Judge? (13 page)

He took the staff outdoors for the best light to examine the runes, his face growing more sour as time went on. “Whoever carved this was no rune-master. It looks like it was intended to draw wealth to the carver. But it’s careless enough that it could have cursed half the merchants in town. Or maybe the other way around. Where was the horse’s skull?”

“It was on the ground at the base of the staff, facing toward the river.”

Dirk spent some time thinking. “Facing a bit downstream, and it was tilted to one side.”

“The skull is supposed to be at the top of the staff. It must have blown off in this wind. Pity. If it’d stayed in place, we would have known where the spell was aimed.” The priest frowned. “We should burn that staff. Its runes are too ill-formed and dangerous to keep around.”

“Could you wait on that?” Dirk asked. “That staff might mean something about the death of Thorolf Pike. We may need its testimony, and yours.”

The priest turned to walk into the longhouse. “Come with me then. Bear witness.” He brought the staff to the statue of Odin, taller than a man, covered in gold-leaf, seated on a high-seat and holding his spear Gungnir. Carved ravens, stained black as night, were on the shoulders of the god. They had glistening obsidian eyes. There was a spear-holder before the statue.

The priest knelt before the statue, the rune-staff horizontal in his outstretched hands. “Odin All-Father, guard us as we search for truth.” He stood, placed the staff in the spear-holder, and prostrated himself before the statue.
“You know a rune, a sixth mighty rune. It saves us if a man cuts runes on a sapling’s roots with intent to harm. It turns the spell. The hater is harmed, not we.”
He stood and bowed his head. “The words of the High One.”

He looked at them. “We will hold the staff for one cycle of the moon, starting with Thorolf’s pyre last night. Then it, too, shall burn.”

“That should be quite enough,” Dirk replied.

“Many thanks for your aid and wisdom,” Ragnar turned to go. He hesitated, drew forth the dagger on his belt, gave it to the priest. “Hang this on the sacrifice oak. It is of my making.”

The priest looked it over. “Your runes are well-formed.”

“Thank you,” Ragnar replied. Then he and Dirk went out into the light and the wind. It was coming up on noon. The sun was shining, but dark clouds scudded by to the south, edging closer.

Dirk looked back at the temple. “I’ve not been here before. The statues are magnificent, at least as handsome as those in the cathedral.”

“The statues in the cathedral are mostly just saints. Our temple has
gods.
Of course we’d have them carved by our finest artisans. The gods might get angry if we didn’t do our best.”

They went to the stables, and soon were riding back toward the fairgrounds. The guards followed along. They saw no evidence of highwaymen, nor of the bailiff and troopers. Dirk was anxious about that, but he had his instructions. He was to investigate Ragnar, and this certainly counted as close observation.

Ragnar saw Dirk looking at the ground near the lake road, along the side-road and into the bushes. There was a spatter of blood on the road. “This is where the robbers were reported?”

“Yes, curse them. We’re having enough trouble over Thorolf, without bandits too. I hope our men are okay.” The borrowed guards were close enough to hear this, and paid closer attention to their surroundings for some while.

When they reached the fairgrounds, Otkel and his men were by Matilda’s paddock. Starkad was threatening Matilda. Benedict stood between the two, looking small but determined.

“I’ve been told you were very rude to Thorolf, his last day alive,” Otkel said in a deadly voice. Starkad growled, and worked his shoulders. Judging by their faces, Otkel’s other men had mixed reactions. Some agreed with Starkad, while others—Leif chief among them—knew that Thorolf had been fond of Matilda and wouldn’t want her harmed.

Benedict stayed between Starkad and Matilda, but spoke to Otkel. “God’s wounds, Otkel, don’t you realize? Thorolf was always the voice of moderation in your dealings. He wouldn’t approve, no he wouldn’t! Whatever else, he
liked
Matilda!”

Ragnar and Dirk were hurrying toward the paddock, but Olaf Far-traveler beat them to it. He leaped the fence, grappled Starkad by the waist, and threw him into the water-trough. Otkel snatched his axe from where it rested on his shoulder, while Starkad spluttered in the water.

“Haw!” Olaf bellowed. “If that water’s for horses, it should do for an ass!” Then he raised his open, empty hands, one toward Otkel and one toward Starkad. “They hang killers in Northlanding. It’s a strange law, but I’m beginning to appreciate it. It’d be a shameful death for anyone who kills me, and I’d have my revenge. So—” he motioned a come-on to Starkad and Otkel “—want to wrestle?” He made the sign of Thor’s Hammer, as his teeth glinted in a fierce smile.

But Otkel and Starkad didn’t want to wrestle. Ragnar, Dirk, and the guards had arrived, well-armed and armored. More of Olaf’s and Ragnar’s men were coming up each moment. A lot of merchants had seen what was happening, and sent their guards. Otkel had a dozen men, but suddenly that didn’t seem like many. He hung his axe back on his shoulder.

After that, Otkel and his men went about trying to make merchants hold by their deals with Thorolf. But Dirk, guards, and other armed men followed Otkel around, and the merchants had seen him back down at Matilda’s. They were not about to accept deals that had seemed reasonable only when Thorolf was there to propose them.

Otkel first went to the tent of a merchant who had crossed the Cold Sea to Lakesend with a shipload of copper ingots. He was a stranger to this trade fair, and Otkel thought he might be easily intimidated. “You promised us copper at the price of iron. We’re here to get it.”

“I promised Thorolf copper at that price,” the man replied. “Everybody told me Thorolf was a powerful man. His favor was worth cultivating, and his disfavor best avoided. Bring Thorolf with you, and you can have the copper.”

“Unpleasant things might happen,” Otkel said.

“In a few days the fair will be over, and I’ll be on the road to Lakesend. Soon after that, I’ll be far away at sea. If something unpleasant wants to happen to me here, it had better hurry.” He looked at the guards following Otkel and his men.

Otkel decided it would be wiser to seek a local merchant, one he had better relations with. He went over to the dyer’s booth. The dyer was out in front with samples of his work. He had acquired much undyed linen and wool, stored in his booth, and he had dyestuffs to sell and trade. “Good day, Samuel.”

“And a good day to you, Otkel, such as you can have in these terrible times. I was saddened to hear of Thorolf’s death.”

“It was a shock to all of us. But we’re trying to uphold the deals he made.”

“A man’s word is important,” Samuel agreed. “And I have the cochineal I promised you. Have you gotten the alum from those traders to the west, for the exchange?”

“I haven’t talked to them yet today. They didn’t deliver yesterday like they promised they would.”

“Undoubtedly they didn’t want to intrude upon you in your grief. I haven’t forgotten the help you and Thorolf gave me setting up in the southwest trade, and as soon as you have the alum I’ll give you your cochineal at a very favorable rate.”

Otkel left then, and his men followed. “That wasn’t bad, nor was it good. But I think we can make this one work. We have alum in our warehouse. If those other traders don’t come through, we can still make a profit on the cochineal.”

“People aren’t cooperating,” Leif noted the obvious. Starkad growled in agreement, his face dark with annoyance.

Otkel looked decisive. “We’ll talk with locals. They can’t go away across the sea, so they’ll have to be more agreeable.” Everybody nodded at that, and Otkel strode off toward James Smith’s booth.

James was busy at his small forge, repairing and sharpening a camp hatchet. “I can’t talk now, Otkel. People need things fixed. There’s a storm headed this way, and they have to be ready.” He swept his hammer-arm up toward the clouds, which were starting to overcome the sun.

Otkel couldn’t deny that. “Yesterday was bad, and today isn’t any better,” he told his men. “Nothing will be improved by our getting rained on. Let’s go home. I want to take an inventory. We might be able to make some profit yet, if we use goods we already have.”

Chapter 10

Tuesday: The Raven Circles

On their way back to Northlanding, Otkel and his men saw the bailiff and his troopers with a group of prisoners. Otkel rode ahead and hailed the bailiff. “What’s this?”

Gervase smiled grimly. “We caught some highwaymen that were making trouble earlier today. Most of them are even in shape to talk.”

Otkel looked them over. They were a scruffy lot. “That’s quite a few highwaymen, but only one of your troopers seems wounded. Two of the bandits appear dead. You must have fought very fiercely.”

“They ran,” Gervase said, “and they didn’t all run at the same speed. We took them a few at a time. That’s the way to do it, hm?”

“Any way you take highwaymen is good, but the easy ways are best. Can we help you bring them in?”

“Why,
thank
you, Otkel! We could use help with their camp goods, and you seem to have a few extra pack horses. With your help, we might all get home before the rain hits.”

Otkel winced inside at the mention of ‘extra pack horses.’ Those horses were supposed to be carrying trade goods. But he motioned his men forward. “Load our horses,” he told them. Then he turned back to the bailiff. “Did these robbers have anything to do with Thorolf’s death?”

Gervase shrugged. “I doubt it. None of them had the right kind of bow to shoot the arrow that killed Thorolf. The baron’s men will question them, and that will be one of the questions.”

“Another reason to get them to the baron in a hurry. Besides, that one with the wounded shoulder doesn’t look like he’ll keep very well.”

The robbers traveled slowly—they were bruised and hurt, and did
not
want to go to the castle—but they had no choice. The procession beat the rain, arriving just as the clouds were overcoming the sun. They all went in the gate, across the courtyard, and into the keep. Gervase called for the physician, and some men-at-arms.

Otkel and his men, helped by a man-at-arms, tossed the dead highwaymen in one cell, and all their goods in another. Then the armsman locked the cells. The physician had gone right to the injured trooper. He had his apprentice working on the bandits. The bandits needed their wounds bound up, though the one Rhys had shot was in poor shape. “I don’t think he’ll make it,” the apprentice said. The bandit Gervase had hamstrung would live, but forever be a cripple.

When the physician looked at the troopers, he found most had a bad rash as well as relatively minor wounds. “Get that unguent from my office,” he told a man-at-arms. “It’s in a stoneware pot bearing the abbey’s coat of arms.”

Gervase had some wounds he hadn’t even noticed, probably from the ground and the bushes. But at least he didn’t have a rash.

While all this was going on, Otkel took Starkad aside. “I’d bet you’re angry at Olaf Far-traveler,” he said. Starkad scowled. His clothes were still damp from the soaking Olaf had given him, and the memory fresh. “Would you like to help give him and Ragnar Forkbeard some trouble?” Starkad bared his teeth in a fierce smile.

“When we killed Snorri Crow, Thorolf took his cloak-brooch as a trophy. It was one of the handsomest he’d ever seen. I saw it last night, in the trove we were gifting from. I want you to get that brooch, quietly so nobody else notices. Then take it to the fairgrounds. Leave it somewhere around Olaf’s booth, like it was dropped by accident. With the storm we have coming, everybody will be under cover and won’t see you. I’ll talk with the bailiff, and do the rest.”

Then Otkel gathered his men. “You should all go back to the warehouse and work on inventory for tomorrow’s trading. I’ll stay here and talk with the bailiff. Maybe I can help him find Thorolf’s killer.”

The Northmen left, taking their horses with them. Outside, the wind had died down, but the air smelled of water. Otkel leaned against the wall near the door, watching and listening. The armsmen and the troopers were busy getting the robbers into a cell. The man Gervase called the leader was put in a separate cell, and the baron’s questioners carried off the man with the shoulder wound.
That’s smart,
Otkel thought.
You can never tell what you’ll hear from a dying man, but it’ll likely be more useful than asking questions after he’s dead.

Finally the bailiff dismissed his troopers to their quarters, and came over to Otkel. “Did you have something you wanted to say?”

Otkel had been considering that very matter. “I’ve been thinking back on Thorolf’s body.”

The door rattled as the wind picked up again, and they could hear the rush of rain against the oiled-parchment windows. “You wouldn’t want to go out in that weather, hm? Come with me. It’s been a hard day, and we could use some wine while we talk.” Gervase motioned to a servant. “Light the candles, and bring warm spiced wine to my quarters.”

The servant trotted up the spiral staircase. Gervase and Otkel followed in a more leisurely fashion. By the time they’d reached the second landing, candlelight was spilling out through a doorway as the servant hustled back through the door. Gervase entered and went to the window, drew back the parchment to look out. “Oh, that’s nasty,” he murmured. Otkel looked, and agreed. It was still mid-afternoon, but dark as dusk. He couldn’t see far through the downpour, but occasional flashes of lightning lit up trees tossing wildly in the wind. Pools of rainwater were gathering everywhere. The air was filled with thunder, and the roar of the wind.

The bailiff took a seat, motioned Otkel to another. Otkel looked around as he crossed the room. The outer walls were harsh stone, but candlelight shone on tapestries of hunting and hawking to brighten them. A small table held two candles, what looked like an account book, a small stack of cheap parchment, an inkwell, a writing frame, and a quill. On top of the parchment was a wax tablet and stylus for temporary notes. Against the far wall a framework held a mail shirt and helmet, with a steel breastplate over all. There was a comfortable-looking bed against the inside wall.