Secret Murder: Who Shall Judge? (14 page)

Gervase swept his arm to indicate the room. “Rank has its small privileges, hm? I hear you live well also.” The servant returned with wine, and poured a cup for each of them. Then he left, quietly closing the door.

They sat and sipped, taking in the warmth of the wine. There was a comfortable silence.

“Thorolf’s body?” the bailiff eventually murmured.

Otkel twitched, came back from his ruminations. “I was upset when I noticed his pouch of silver was gone. Sometimes you learn from what is
not
said, what is
not
there. Missing silver would speak of thieves.” Otkel trailed off.

Gervase remembered the way Otkel had looked at him when he’d said he’d taken the pouch for evidence. Wisely, he held his tongue.

“When we were preparing Thorolf’s body for the pyre, I noticed something else was gone: a brooch Thorolf was very fond of wearing, silver and copper and gold. And it doesn’t seem to be around the warehouse, either.”

Gervase raised an eyebrow. “Mm?”

“A missing brooch could speak of thieves. But this one speaks of Surtsheim, and the men of Snorri Crow. Thorolf took the brooch from him as a trophy. If one of Snorri’s faction saw Thorolf wearing it, they might feel the need to reclaim it for Snorri’s family.”

“I think I follow you. That
does
sound like Northmen. And here we have thirty men of Surtsheim at the fair?”

“That’s just so. Ragnar Forkbeard was one of Snorri’s strongest supporters, and he brought about ten men. Olaf Far-traveler came to Surtsheim after Snorri died, but some of his men were of Snorri’s faction. And ten or so men are travelling with them for the adventure and to do some trading of their own. I don’t know them well, but they’re from Surtsheim also.”

“Ragnar told me none of his men, or Olaf’s, had announced the killing of Thorolf.”

“Ragnar is good at telling part-truths. But that still leaves Ragnar and Olaf, and the ten that are neither’s men.”

“I was wondering about that myself, but I hadn’t known ten were neither man’s men.”

“Northmen are an independent lot. Most of those ten are young enough that they don’t remember Snorri Crow well. And Olaf didn’t come to Surtsheim until after we’d been outlawed. Ragnar Forkbeard is still the most likely killer.”

“You’ve seemed very sure of that, even from the beginning.”

“Bailiff, Thorolf’s death was nowhere
near
the beginning of this. There’s been bad blood between Thorolf and Ragnar for ten years and more.”

“Hm.”

Both men took sips of their wine, and breathed deeply of its scent. They listened to the storm in silence, took another sip. The candles flickered in the drafts that forced their way through the windows, past the parchment that kept out the rain. They were glad to be indoors.

After a while, Gervase spoke. “Let’s assume Ragnar has the brooch. Let’s assume it’s proof he was involved in Thorolf’s killing. How on earth would I find it?”

Otkel thought for a while. “Ragnar follows the laws and customs of Surtsheim district well. He’s not as particular about other peoples’ laws and customs. He wouldn’t mind killing somebody despite
your
laws, so long as it were legal in Surtsheim. He’d be perfectly happy taking the King’s Deer. If he thought he could underpay his tariff on this fair, he’d be doubly happy.”

“Ragnar’s cook made venison stew for the noon meal, yesterday,” Gervase noted. “One of my men had a taste of it.”

“Well then, send the gamekeepers out to see if they can find any evidence it was made from a local deer. And while they’re poking around, who knows what else they might find?”

“You have a subtle mind, Otkel.”

“Thank you.”

At the tavern, Dirk joined tables with Atli and Ari. All three wanted to know what people were saying. Sitting together saved energy and money. Besides, they’d had enough hard cider themselves to feel companionable.

Soon enough, the wind was gusting even more strongly. Tony was cleaning up the area and storing everything. He was alone—his wife Maude was back in Milltown with their daughter, taking care of their inn. He had secured his wagon with stout pegs and strong ropes. “Help me get the canvas fly down.” Ari and Atli took the ropes in hand to keep it from escaping, while Dirk undid the knots. They got it folded and into the wagon just as the first raindrops started splattering the ground. Tony climbed in, and pulled the doors shut behind him.

Dirk saw the real rain approaching. “I have to get this mail shirt off before it rusts and stains my clothes!” The three made a dash for Ragnar’s booth. They were the last ones there, and as soon as they got in, the heavens opened. They slammed the door, and barred it. Rain rattled on the canvas roof. There was a tremendous clap of thunder.

“Whew!” Dirk said. “Help me out of this?” He bent over and held out his arms, and Atli pulled the mail shirt over his head.

Dirk turned his head toward Ragnar. “Thanks for the loan. Turned out I didn’t need it, but I felt safer.”

Ragnar took the shirt, and draped it over a wooden bar. “Self-interest, Dirk. If I’d left with a live deputy, and returned with a dead one, I’d never hear the end of it.”

There was a strong burst of wind. A small branch blew from a tree and landed on the roof. They could see its faint shadow through the canvas. Another gust took it away. The roof tried to flap, but it was tied down too securely. A cold draft forced its way into the booth.

“Stay with us until the storm is over.” Ragnar sat on his chair, and motioned Dirk to the stool. There were perhaps a dozen men in the booth, sitting on benches, rolls of bedding, and their traveling chests. Some were lying down already, preparing for a nap. There was a shadowy pile of moose antler toward the rear, and small chests of who-knows-what. A handsome bed with ornamented dragon posts stood against one wall, with bear furs on top.

Dirk looked the men over. None of them seemed eager to kill him. He relaxed.

Gunnar spoke up. “I started some ale as soon as we got here. Who wants to help strain it?” Knute, and several other men, jumped to their feet. Gunnar put a cloth over his brew-keg, while the men picked up the barrel. They carefully poured the ale through the cloth, which filled with barley mash as the ale itself went through to the keg.

Gunnar picked up the cloth, and squeezed the remaining liquid into the keg. “Breakfast porridge,” he said with a smile as he lifted the bundle and put it into another kettle. “
If
we can light a cook-fire by then. Now, wait for the ale to settle.”

The men had hustled much of the day, preparing for the storm, and they wanted to relax. They didn’t wait long. Soon the cups and horns and bowls came out, and everybody began to drink. Gunnar broke out some bread and a chest of jerky, carried them around. “At least give the ale some food for company.”

Ragnar went over, got a large bowl of ale, and brought it to Dirk himself. Then he went back and got himself a full horn. They leaned back, and drank. “Ah,” Ragnar sighed. “It’s young compared to Tony’s ale. But Gunnar makes a good brew.”

Several of the men broke into song, loud enough to be heard even over the wind and rain. Dirk got some bread and jerky, began to chew. The bread was soft, the jerky hard. He liked the contrast.

Ragnar sipped his ale as he looked the men over. They were dry, well-fed, quite jolly, and surrounded by a dangerous storm. It could be a good time for tales, but the noise of the wind probably ruled that out.

There was a loud crunch as something, blown by the wind, bounced off their walls. The light through the canvas roof was growing dim. Leaves rattled past in bunches, torn from the trees.

“Thor defend us,” Ragnar said quietly. “I’m glad we’re not at sea in this weather.” Lightning and thunder answered.

“How often
have
you been at sea in weather like this?” Dirk asked, equally quietly.

“Often enough to satisfy me, but nowhere as often as Olaf. He trades to the east, and sails the big seas to get there. I just go to sea when I need copper, or fish. Most of the men in this booth have only been on the Little Sea. They don’t know what it’s like on the big seas.”

The men were lying back, talking and singing. The air was getting chill with the storm, and they were starting to haul out their wool blankets.

“They don’t seem worried,” Dirk noted.

“They’ve been making things all winter. Then we had to load the boats, and move them down the river. Once we were here, we worked to set up for trade. They’ve been busy. Now, of a sudden, nobody—not even themselves—expects them to do anything. Of course they want to lean back.”

Ragnar took another drink from his horn. “Young ale helps make us carefree, but we still have our wits about us. It’s safe to relax, even in this weather. Of course, some of the men are young too. They haven’t seen the things that can happen to a boat, or a merchant.”

There was silence in the rear, as much as could be found in this storm, then Knute began to chant, in a carrying voice.

When comes winter   we will want to

Stay quite warm around the stead.

Hunting finds food   fire heats it,

Ale is good, and so is bed.

But we cannot   work at nothing

So we craft around the home

Stropping iron,   smithing silver,

Carving wood and shaping bone.

Polish bright stones   spin some linen,

Gifts for friends and family.

On the Solstice   flames the Yule-log

Celebrate around the tree.

Weather warming,   winter weakens

Makers start to seek to sell.

Crafting baubles,   spear-blades sharpen,

Trapping furs and tanning well.

Caching cargo   moving metal,

Stocking ships with goods and freight.

Riding rapids   rowing ripples

Drifting down Spring’s water-spate.

Band of brothers   broach to landfall

On to Fair we gladly roam,

Show our goods forth   look at their goods,

Trade for goods we lack at home.

Row up-river   breasting current

Home to tell our travel-tale.

Showing silver,   glass and grape-wine,

And our comrades, safe and hale.

Ragnar smiled. “That was nicely done. Knute’s voice is well on the way to being fit for a captain. If we can hear him over this storm, his crew can hear him at sea. And he translated the poem into English well.” The others seemed to agree. They were clapping Knute’s shoulder, grinning, raising their fists and shouting joyously. “Now all we have to do is get back safe and hale.”

Gunnar came over to them. “The raven of death circles above us. We must be wary if we wish to return home safely. Pray to Thor to preserve us.”

Ragnar looked into Gunnar’s eyes. “This is one of your visions, isn’t it?”

Gunnar nodded. “I only saw the raven. Nothing is certain.” He went back among the other men, lay down, and wrapped himself in his blanket. He was silent and motionless, but Ragnar and Dirk could see his open eyes gleaming in the dimness.

Outside, wrapped in a dark cloak, Starkad dropped the brooch and nudged it under one of the sitting-logs near the cookfire circle. Then, buffeted by the wind, water streaming from him, he began the long walk back toward Northlanding.

Chapter 11

Wednesday: More Ravens

After an uneasy night, Benedict had finally sunk into a deeper slumber. Now daylight was starting to shine through small greased-rawhide windows. He began to stir.

He no longer heard the howl of the wind, nor the rush of rain. The storm was over.

He wasn’t at home, safe in his own bed. His eyes opened, to the interior of a small shed. He was sleeping on a horse-blanket over hay. He’d gathered extra hay under it for a pillow, used his small cloak as best he could for cover, and wrapped any loose sections of the blanket around him for warmth. Where was he?

Then he noticed an exhalation, followed by a small chirp.
Ah, that was it,
he thought.
We were helping Matilda get ready for the storm, then took shelter with her when it hit. I hope Hob and Joseph are okay.
He rose to a sitting position, looked around. Yes, Matilda was sleeping on the other side of the shed. And there was the door.

He opened the door as quietly as he could. Outside, it was early morning. The ground was wet, and covered with leaves and branches. Where the sun reached, droplets of water sparkled. Gingerly, he stepped out and went to the horse-stalls. Hob and Joseph were sleeping curled up on hay, under horse blankets. The horses were awake, but drowsy. Off to one side he could hear the small river flowing, much louder than before with all the night’s rainfall. The big river was only slightly higher—it would take time for the full storm-water to make its way there.

Over by the tavern, Tony was straightening things out. Benedict wandered off in his direction. “Hello, Benedict!” the tavern-keeper cried. “Could you help me get this canvas fly back up?”

Benedict helped with the ropes as Tony tied knots to hold the fly in place above the log sections that served him as tables. “How did you do over the night?” Benedict asked.

“No trouble at all. This wagon and I have gone through worse storms than this. I hope everything went as well at my inn in Milltown. Should be okay, Maude was there to take care of it, and she had our daughter to help.” Tony took dry firewood out of the wagon, started a small fire, and began heating a kettle of cider. People would want a warm drink, first thing off, and his livelihood came from satisfying that sort of want.

Once it was warm, Benedict purchased a small bucket of cider, the loan of some cups, and a large loaf of bread. He took them back to the paddock, and roused Hob and Joseph. He gave them cups of cider. “Here. Warm your bones.” He left half the loaf of bread with them, and went into the shed.

Matilda was awake, and looking muzzily about. He set a cup of cider before her, then sat back to drink some himself. He tore off a piece of bread, and dipped it in his cup. Benedict didn’t have the best teeth in Northlanding, and liked his food soft. His cook was wonderful with soups and stews.