Secret Murder: Who Shall Judge? (18 page)

James backed up, and bumped into Ari.

“The bailiff made his troopers go into those bushes to investigate, though Atli testifies they were reluctant. The Abbess says she only gave salve to the baronial physician, but Father Hugh says he gave some to you for poison ivy. There are many local merchants with reason to kill Thorolf – but only one local merchant with a case of poison ivy.”

James gave in. “I tried to avoid the ivy. I must have brushed against some as I was leaving. It was late twilight by then, and hard to tell the plants. A good shot, considering the light. I can’t say I regret it.”

James paused a moment. “What are you going to do about this?”

Ragnar frowned. “None of us here will weep for Thorolf, but justice must be done. This is why secret murder is forbidden, James. It brings suspicion into peoples’ minds. It’s hard enough dealing with death, without adding suspicion. I’m at serious risk from your actions. Will you grant me judgement?”

“You? Only the king and his courts have the right to judge!”

“You’re an Englishman. That’s your way. I don’t care about your king’s opinion in this matter, and you seem willing to avoid his judgement. Among Northmen, judgements are made by the community assembled together at the Althing, unless agreement can be reached beforehand. Thorolf was a Northman, we are Northmen, and I am offering you the chance to be judged by our laws rather than yours.”

James seemed to grasp the formality of the situation. He stood a moment in thought. “Then I will grant you judgement. You’re an honorable man—and I’ll probably get a less harsh judgement from you than I would from the Baron.”

The three Northmen relaxed, took formal poses instead of wary ones.

“Very well, then,” Ragnar said. “Thorolf was outlawed, so it is legal to kill him, but you did so secretly, which is itself a crime. I shall balance these two against one another, and rule this be counted as an ordinary killing.

“You had a good reason for the killing. Thorolf had been threatening tradesmen’s families some years back, and it looked like he or Otkel might be starting again. Even without that, he’d been threatening you, your wife, and your son. I think most Northmen would agree the killing was justified.

“Thorolf was an important man in your community. Even for a justified killing, the compensation for such a man is two hundred ounces of silver. However, I have been at these trade fairs for years. It seems to me that Thorolf’s practices have cost you at least that sum. I rule that he has collected his wergild himself, in advance, and you are quit of any claims against you.

“Since you have been judged as having satisfied the laws of Surtsheim District so far as I am concerned, there is no reason for me to further tax you with this killing, save that you help me escape the attentions of the bailiff. I rule that none of us speak of this judgement. The bailiff, the baron, and the king have no legitimate claim against you under the laws of Surtsheim.”

Everybody there agreed that this should be so. Then Ari and Atli, as witnesses, repeated the words of the judgement, and they all grasped hands.

“I was careful asking questions once I suspected you,” Ragnar said. “I don’t think people will come bothering you over things I’ve said. But the bailiff seems determined to catch somebody. I want the bailiff to take a harder look at Otkel. It’s only fair—Otkel used Snorri Crow’s brooch to make the bailiff take a harder look at me. And Otkel’s done enough other ill deeds that I’ll not cry if something bad happens to him.

“James, you should ask the local merchants for stories of Otkel’s ill deeds, and if you should find the bailiff is coming for me, you must notify me as rapidly as you can. I’m going to check with my men and Olaf’s, also. Then I’m going to make a scorn poem.”

“A poem?” James Smith was incredulous.

Ragnar smiled. “A Northman with a strong poem is very dangerous.”

Chapter 14

Thursday: Things Collapse

Ragnar didn’t rest much that night. He was turning ideas, words, and verses over in his mind. The weavings of his bed creaked softly as he rolled about. As he finally drifted toward sleep, he noticed Gunnar lighting his lantern from the coals in his small fire-carrier. Gunnar went out the door. There was a crackling noise as he started a fire in his cook-pit.

A hand on his shoulder shook Ragnar awake. He could smell porridge and broth. The door to the booth was open. There was the faintest hint of dawn in the East, and Gunnar was standing over him. “Let’s rouse the men, and break our fast,” Ragnar said. The two of them went about stirring people into wakefulness.

Ragnar and Gunnar were first to the food. As Gunnar was ladling out porridge, he spoke quietly. “A Valkyrie came to visit last night.”

“Oh?”

“I’d started the fire, and was waiting for the water to heat. I noticed a tall, strong woman next to me, by that tree. She was armed, armored, richly dressed, and she moved like a warrior. She seemed very real, more real than most of us. I could hear a horse whickering nearby. ‘Gunnar, you’ve waited long enough to settle matters with Otkel,’ she told me. ‘Today will pay for all.’ Then she vanished into the shadows. I’d never seen her before.”

Ragnar’s brows rose, and he stroked his beard in thought. “That’s a better omen than the raven you saw circling during the storm. Perhaps this whole problem will be taken care of today.”

“For me, at least,” Gunnar said. He looked very much like a man who’d been waiting to end a problem.

Ragnar had no reply to that. He sat and ate, and his men came grumbling sleepily out to join them. Some men came from the other booths, too: men that had no love for Thorolf, nor for Otkel. Eventually there were twenty. Olaf was among them.

As they were eating, Ragnar stood. “Somebody hid Snorri Crow’s brooch here to make the bailiff suspicious. Only Thorolf—and then Otkel—would have had that brooch. Today, I speak to Otkel.”

He looked to Olaf. “Olaf, this is my fight, and Gunnar’s. I’d consider it a great favor if you stayed here with some men and kept our camp and possessions safe while we’re gone.”

Then he looked about. “They won’t let us through the gate into Northlanding if we look like a war party. We all should put on our finest clothes. Bring weapons. If you want a mail shirt, wear it beneath your tunic. I’ll carry a shield. Some of the things I’m going to say might make Otkel want to throw axes. He’s known for that.”

Everybody went back to their booths to prepare. Before the sun was up and the fairgrounds wakeful, they were walking toward Northlanding on the traders’ road. Tony was already preparing his tavern for the coming day. He watched them leave.

Dirk Cachepol was snoring mightily when a night watchman carefully poked him awake. “The watch is changing, Dirk. You wanted to be roused then.”

Dirk grunted and grumbled and rubbed his eyes. “What’s the weather like?”

“A light breeze, no clouds, cool, and dawn just starting.”

Dirk rolled upright. “Good. Today’s going to be busy. At least it won’t be hot or wet.” He shoved his feet into boots, buttoned them up over his breeches, and shrugged into the padded gambeson he wore beneath armor. He lit a rushlight from the watchman’s torch. Then he strolled into the barracks, and used the rushlight to ignite the candles in their sconces.

“Up and at ’em, men,” he bellowed. Four troopers startled, twitched, or quietly opened their eyes into wakefulness. “Otkel doesn’t know to wait for us, so if we’re slow, he’ll be gone to the fair. Get fed, use the jakes, then into your armor!” He clapped his hands. Servants brought in bread and ale.

The men were soon dressing as Dirk hustled them along. They put on padded gambesons, mail shirts over them, and steel caps on their heads. “We’re one man short today, with Thomas wounded by those highwaymen. We’ll all have to be extra sharp to make up for that. So wear the livery. This is an official visit to Otkel, after all. We want to look our very best, impressive and intimidating.”

Dirk led the men out the gate of the keep onto the grounds, where the grass glistened with dew. They stood there in the earliest light of dawn. As soon as they’d lined up, the bailiff stepped out to join them.

Gervase was armed and armored much like the others, but in brown fabric of high quality. His mail was somewhat longer in the sleeve, and lightly browned to match the fabric. He also had a steel breastplate painted with the baronial coat of arms: a blue ground with green pines outlined in white on left and right. At the top was a white snowflake; at the bottom, a yellow ship-dock with details picked out in brown. He was wearing the sword he’d confiscated from the highwaymen two days earlier.

He began walking toward the castle gate. “Let’s move out.” The gate itself wasn’t yet open for the day, but the gatekeeper unbarred a small door and let them out through that.

As they walked through the streets of town, the sun began to rise at their right. Its rays gleamed from the golden cross atop the cathedral. When they approached the merchants’ quarter, street vendors were setting up their awnings, their brightly-colored carpets, and painted carts. “Apples, m’lords? Stored in caves, crisp as when they were picked!” Gervase shook his head ‘no,’ but Dirk took one and tossed the vendor a copper.

By the time they neared Otkel’s warehouse, Dirk had finished the apple. He threw away the core. Almost before it stopped rolling, sparrows were squabbling over it. Gervase held up his hand to signal a halt.

“Men, we’ve all been to the warehouse. The south and west sides are up against other warehouses, so we don’t have to worry much about them. The east side has small windows at street level, and they could slide down ropes from the windows in their greathall. The north side has the gate. I’m going up to the gate alone. The rest of you wait around the corner on the east side. Watch those windows! And keep an eye out that they don’t escape from the solar’s window onto the roof to the south.”

They walked the rest of the way. Once his men were out of sight, Gervase went up to the gate. It was sturdy, thick-hewn planks girded with great iron straps and many, many iron nails. He reached out to the massive door-knocker, and brought it down once, twice, thrice. The sound echoed in the street.

Otkel and his men were well-dressed in preparation for the day’s trading, and eating their breakfasts. Starkad had joined them from the solar, wrapped up in a blanket for warmth. He was still coughing, but not nearly as badly. “That medicine the physician gave me is really helping,” he said in a voice somewhere between a croak and normal.

A loud knocking at the gate to his compound distracted them.

Soon one of the servants entered. “The bailiff is here, wishing to speak with you,” he told Otkel.

“Why didn’t you bring him up?”

“I looked through the speaking-hole. He was wearing armor, and carrying a sword.”

“There’s only one of him, and twelve of us. What danger could he be?” And then Otkel’s eyes widened. “There
is
only one of him? Look out all the windows, and check!”

The servant rushed to the windows on the side wall, and looked out. “Dirk Cachepol and four troopers are waiting around the corner, with armor and swords. They saw me looking at them.”

Otkel cursed. “We sacrificed plenty to Odin at Thorolf’s pyre. He wouldn’t forsake us. But with this much trouble, there must be
some
gods against us. That Ragnar, he sacrifices to Thor,
and
gets along with the priests of the White Christ. And I’ve never trusted that bailiff.”

He fumed for a moment, then withdrew into calm. “Men, whatever you do, don’t let them in.” He went into his room and threw open the window. There the bailiff was on the street below, in full armor and livery. The rising sun reflected from his polished steel cap.

“I’m told you want to speak with me,” Otkel said down to Gervase.

“Why, yes,” the bailiff replied. “I was wondering if you could tell me how that brooch got from Thorolf’s treasure-trove the night of his pyre, to Ragnar’s camp at the fairgrounds yesterday morning.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Otkel said. But he was thinking,
Hel take it, I
knew
it was bad having that Welsh trooper follow me around. He must have seen it in the trove.

“I’m sure if you think hard you could come up with something.”

The men were clustering around the door, listening as Otkel spoke. As one, they turned to look at Starkad, who coughed.

“I was with you most of the day, and night, of the storm,” Otkel told the bailiff. “I couldn’t have done it.”

“Perhaps one of your men moved the brooch? I hear Starkad was out in the storm.”

“I wouldn’t know. If he was, that was his business. I certainly didn’t tell him to do it.”

Behind him, Starkad was quietly turning purple with rage. His scars stood out in strong contrast. He clenched his fist, held it quivering by his side. The others moved back.

Then Otkel saw motion, outside and to his right. He looked, and saw Ragnar Forkbeard coming down the street with twenty men.
Maybe I should have sacrificed the white bear furs,
Otkel thought.
This sure doesn’t look like I have Odin’s favor.
“We seem to have an interruption.”

Ragnar and the men arrived in front of Thorolf’s warehouse. It was a strong timbered building, with a walled yard and quite a number of outbuildings. There were no man-sized openings near the ground.

“Here to cause trouble, Ragnar?” Otkel sneered. “You may have us outnumbered—but we have strong walls. And that’s the bailiff next to you. Why don’t you go back to the fair like a good little nithing, before you get in worse trouble than you already are.”

“Why yes, Otkel—that’s the bailiff. And the baronial guard for the north gate has its barracks only a few streets over. If we started a battle, they’d be on us like hornets.”

“But I’m a peaceful man. To prove it, I’ve even made a poem in Thorolf’s honor—and yours.”

Thorolf was a mighty leader;

Foeman mine, but we could speak.