Secret Murder: Who Shall Judge? (3 page)

He unbuckled his sword, hung it on the bedpost, took off his clothes, lay on one bearskin and pulled the other over him. Nights could be cold, this close to the river. From outside there was a burst of drunken Norse song—some of the men back from the tavern, no doubt. The interwoven ropes creaked beneath him as he rolled on his side. He slept.

Chapter 2

Monday: Thorolf’s body, Thorolf’s men

Mist shrouded the trail as Benedict rode from Northlanding toward the fairgrounds. Several pack-horses laden with food supplies and trade goods followed, led by two men still half-asleep. Benedict was quite awake: his night watchman always roused him as soon as light quickened in the east. He had dressed in working-merchant’s clothes, eaten his breakfast of sops in wine, and spent a moment in prayer, by the time the rest of the household was stirring.

Don’t they realize the first full day of the fair is no time for lying abed?
he thought, as he looked back at his little caravan.
So much to do, and only a week to do it!

Suddenly his horse shied, dancing sideways toward the river. The other horses seemed alarmed, too. Benedict and the men fought them back under control. “Hob! Joseph! Do you see anything to upset them? Pest and bother! Blast this fog!” But nothing seemed amiss, and the horses were avoiding a spot closer than the woods looming dimly at the edge of vision.

Probably not a bear,
Benedict thought as he dismounted and they tied the horses—but he had his sword, Hob his staff, and Joseph his whip as they went to investigate.

Thorolf Pike lay in the tall grass between the trail and the woods. Droplets of morning dew spangled the gray-goose fletching of the arrow piercing his side. His neck was bent unnaturally, and his crumpled form looked as if he’d been thrown by a horse—thrown far.

Benedict was stunned for an instant, then took command. “We’re almost to the abbey road. Take my horse, and tell Father Hugh a man is in need of the final sacraments,” he snapped at a no-longer-sleepy Hob. “You, Joseph—run and fetch the bailiff! I’ll stay here to watch the body!” He listened to the sound of hoofbeats and running feet fading into the mist.

“Heavens above!” he murmured as he returned to the packhorses, and neatened up their reins tied to a tree on the far side of the trail. “What next?” he said as he returned to stand perhaps ten feet from Thorolf’s body. In the chill air, he wished he had warmer clothes. He pulled up his hood, and sought as much warmth as his shoulder-cape could provide.

Benedict wondered if it had been wise to call upon Father Hugh. Thorolf had not been a good Christian, and he looked extremely dead. The last rites were for those yet living. Still, there was argument about when the soul left the body. The sacraments of the Church could do no harm in any case. Father Hugh was the sort of priest who would bless a body from which the soul had fled, rather than risk failing to bless a body with the soul still in it. He would even bless a primsigned man like Thorolf, who’d only been told of the Christ and had the sign of the cross made at him, but showed no sign of real conversion.

In silence and fog, Benedict examined the scene. The grass around Thorolf seemed untouched. The road and roadside had gotten heavy use the previous day. It was hard for him to tell, but he thought the soft ground showed a horse had reared and bucked in panic, then run. Near these marks lay Thorolf’s polearm. Thorolf’s hair, eyelashes, flesh, and clothes were covered with dew. He looked as if he’d been completely undisturbed since he had fallen.

There was the sound of a running horse. Could the bailiff be coming already? A rider loomed out of the mist, then reined to a sudden stop: a merchant from the south, by his clothes. He looked at the body. “God’s teeth, it
is
Thorolf Pike! The runner I met was right!”

Benedict stepped between the horseman and the corpse. “Just don’t disturb things. I’m trying to keep the body as it is, until the bailiff can see it.”

The merchant laughed. “Thorolf can’t disturb
me
any longer, so I’ll return the favor. But people at the fair will want to know of this!” He slapped his horse on the rump and they were off, quickly vanishing into dimness.

Hoofbeats again, two pairs of them from the direction of the abbey. Hob rode up, followed by Father Hugh on his little donkey. Hugh dismounted, fetched a box from his panniers, and trotted over to Thorolf’s side. Quickly, he draped his stole about his neck and tucked it under his cincture, then began setting up a small table for the anointing. He knelt beside Thorolf, closed his eyes in prayer for a moment, and began.
“Adjutorium nostrum in nomine Domini....”

The little priest, immersed in the sacraments, was alone with Thorolf. Benedict was watching this world as well as the next, and the day was beginning. The mist was burning off, and more people were coming up the trail from Northlanding toward the fair. They stopped, and formed a circle at a respectful distance from Hugh, who was anointing Thorolf’s eyes, nose, mouth. They were silent, but as Hugh said the last “Amen,” a buzz of conversation broke out.

“It’s Thorolf!” “Somebody finally did something about him!” “Hi, there’s his polearm, over in the weeds.” “Where were all those men of his?” “I think I’ll get off to the fair and see about doing some trading—without his help, for once.” “Isn’t that the bailiff coming?”

Six troopers thundered up, and began chasing the crowd off. It was a hopeless task—the day was fully begun, and people were arriving as rapidly as they could be dispersed. Dirk Cachepol, the bailiff’s deputy, glanced at Father Hugh and held in his curses. He set one trooper to handle the horses, and the others in a line to keep traffic moving past, well away from the body. Rumpled, face covered with salt-and-pepper stubble, Dirk looked as if the messenger had caught him asleep. That didn’t fool Benedict. It was hard to catch the deputy asleep, even harder to catch him with a shave.

The line parted, and a horseman on a sleek bay gelding rode through. The bailiff had arrived. Gervase Rotour was tall, with black hair, moustache, and a shaven chin. He had a small paunch. He wore huntsman’s clothes of green and brown particolor, simple but of the finest fabric. His rings were of massive dull-finished gold. His aristocratic nose wrinkled slightly at the smell of Thorolf warming in the sun.

Dirk Cachepol came to his side, and the bailiff suddenly looked even more elegant and subtle by contrast. Dirk took the reins as the bailiff dismounted. Gervase came up to perhaps three paces from the body, and studied it. “Definitely murder. What have you learned so far?”

“When Benedict found the body—” Dirk motioned toward a small cluster of men and horses, a donkey and a priest “—Thorolf was lying there dead as Pontius Pilate. Dew had settled on his hair and clothes. Tracks say his horse was startled—threw him high, then ran back to the road. Thorolf dropped his polearm when that happened. And an arrow never bent his neck at that angle. I figure it broke when he landed. That’s why he’s so far from the road, he was thrown.”

“Father Hugh is the only one actually touched the body, giving last rites. He left out anointing Thorolf’s feet so he wouldn’t muss up his shoes. He also testifies to the dew.

“Thorolf still has his silver arm-rings, and his sword. Now that you’re here....” Dirk broke off and went over to the body. He knelt, untied Thorolf’s pouch, then spilled its contents into his hand. Silver coins and hack-silver rolled out into an impressive pile.

“Robbery was not the reason for this killing,” the bailiff agreed. “And nobody in his right mind would openly confront a horseman carrying a polearm. Thorolf was killed from ambush, by an enemy. Which way was his horse going?”

Dirk pointed toward Northlanding, away from the fair. “It looks like he was returning home.”

Gervase took possession of the pouch and silver. “The arrow was in his right side. It probably was shot from those bushes, somewhere from
there
to
there
. Have the men search, and bring me everything that’s not rooted in the soil.”

The bailiff went over to the onlookers. “Murder has been done here, and I am determined to find the criminal. If a person were to step upon evidence, say—even accidentally—I would have to interview them to find the nature of that which they had damaged. We’re busy, and that could take some time, so I must ask for your cooperation in keeping people well away from the body.”

He turned, saw some of the troopers poking gingerly around the edges of the bushes. He raised his voice: “You’re looking for signs of an ambush on open ground, hm? Get in there, and get to work!”

Gervase went back to Dirk as the onlookers gave the scene a wider berth. “Subtlety, Dirk, always subtlety. Nobody wants to be held as a witness, especially the week of the fair. That’ll keep them away better than a line of troopers.” They watched the men carefully picking their way among the underbrush for a moment, and then Gervase walked over to Thorolf’s body.

He knelt and took the corpse’s arm: stiff. But Thorolf’s legs were still limp. He examined the arrow—certainly a heart shot—then pulled it out. It had penetrated deeply. The head was a type favored among the Northmen. The fletching was of gray-goose pinions. The identifying cresting had been scraped off completely, probably with the edge of a knife.

He stood, wrapped the bloody arrow in cloth, and looked about for a place to put it. It was a yard long, too long for his saddlebags or his scrip. He tucked it in his belt. Then he and Dirk watched the searchers return empty-handed. “Nothing, my lord, not even footprints. The ground is rocky, and if a man were careful he could move without leaving traces.”

“Set guards to make sure nothing is disturbed. Somebody go back to Northlanding for a wagon to carry the body.” With that, the bailiff drew Dirk Cachepol to one side, where they could speak privately.

“Not very much evidence here,” Dirk grumbled.

“Oh, we’ve learned a fair bit,” the bailiff replied. “Thorolf was killed by an enemy, from ambush, using an arrow with a Northman’s arrowhead. There was dew on his clothing, and he’s started to stiffen, so he’s been here some while. If he were killed when there was light and traffic, his body would have been discovered earlier, but the arrow was well-aimed, so it couldn’t have been dark. Somewhat after sundown, I’d say, but well before the moon or stars were out.

“He was probably coming from the fairgrounds. We’ll have to look for his horse. And he usually travels with a number of men. I wonder where they were? Set somebody to finding out.”

Gervase sighed. “Thorolf has been a nuisance, but a well-mannered one. This is unlike him. The last thing we need is for one of the richest local merchants to be found murdered on the first day of the trade fair.

“Wasn’t Thorolf outlawed from Surtsheim district some years back? He must have many enemies there. And three boats from Surtsheim landed just yesterday. Three boatloads of Northmen for suspects, Dirk—thirty or so of them. That’s excessive.”

“Three boatloads of
rich cargo
and suspects, m’lud,” Dirk added.

“Thank you, Dirk. You do have a grasp on such things. Hm, the baron
will
insist justice pay for itself—and we haven’t collected many fines lately, have we?

“Let’s go see if we can catch a killer.”

Dirk stood tall a moment, then pointed down the road toward Northlanding. “At least we won’t have to look for Thorolf’s men,” he said. “Here they come now, all fancied up like the boar’s head at a feast.”

Gervase shaded his eyes. “Your vision is sharper than mine. But that seems to be the ceremonial wagon from the Northmen’s sacred grove, and they’d be the ones wanting it for Thorolf.”

They watched the men and wagon approach. The crowd made way for them in silence, though there was a buzz of conversation farther away. Ten stopped their horses with the wagon, near Thorolf. Otkel and two others rode up to the bailiff and dismounted.

Otkel wore a blue tunic with silver embroidery, white breeches with blue cross-garters, boots, and a short cape of white bear-fur from the land of the Finns. His arms and fingers were covered with silver rings. Around his neck was an amulet of a one-eyed man. Gervase thought he had never seen Otkel looking so handsome, or so dignified.

It takes a funeral to bring out the best in some,
the bailiff thought. “It is a sad occasion,” he said aloud.

Otkel replied. “We’ve come for Thorolf, but first, tell us what has happened here. The stories we’ve heard can’t all be true.”

“Benedict found the body at sunrise. He immediately sent for me and for a priest, who gave Thorolf the final sacraments. As far as we can tell, Thorolf was killed between sundown and night, by an arrow shot from ambush. He was not robbed.

“You may be able to answer some of the remaining questions. Thorolf usually traveled about with you and the other men, yet no cry was raised last night. Either he was alone, or with an accomplice of the killer. How did he come to be separated from you?”

A look of pain crossed Otkel’s face. “He sent us away. We were at the fair most of the day, negotiating sales. About an hour before sundown he told us to go back to Northlanding, to make sure the promised shipments were arriving at our warehouse and the servants were taking proper care of them. ‘I have one piece of business that won’t need your help,’ he said.”

“I thought you all shared in business. Why would he prefer you not be there for some of the negotiations?”

Otkel smiled with half his mouth. “I think this business was with a woman. Who among us is fond of women that are shared?”

“Hm,” said the bailiff, then he was silent for a moment. “Men have killed before, over women. Do you think that’s happened here?”

“How should I know?” For a flash, Otkel was his old self again: querulous, suspicious. “We don’t even know it was a woman—we’re only guessing.”

Gervase spread his hands in a calming gesture. “You’ve pointed to a trail. We’ll send the hunters out, and see what game they find.