Secret Murder: Who Shall Judge? (5 page)

“Yestereve I was in the shed working on tack when Thorolf came to see me. We spoke for a while, then he embraced me and said I would be his.”

Matilda’s eyes were unseeing, looking at a different place and time. Gervase thought she might be of two minds in this matter: lonely, wanting Thorolf despite knowing what he was. She continued.

“I told him he could not have me—and he tried to force me. I work with horses, I am stronger than I appear. We had a set-to, which panicked Thorolf’s horse. He sprained himself.

“That brought Thorolf and myself to our senses. I loaned him one of my horses, so he could return home, and promised to care for Storm until he was healed. He rode off, and that is the last I saw of him. The last thing he said to me was that we would speak further of this on the morrow.

“I realized Thorolf now thought I had betrayed him. God alone knows what he would have done! I put Storm in a box stall, then went to the tavern. And that’s all I remember, until I awoke this morning.”

“What about the horse you lent Thorolf?” Gervase asked.

“He was in the paddock this morning—but I don’t remember anything about it. When I saw him there, I assumed Thorolf had turned him loose to make his own way home. Thorolf kept other horses at his warehouse, so he wouldn’t have needed mine.”

“A plain story, Matilda, forthrightly told. But you say you have no memory of the time of the murder. This is a matter for concern, hm?”

Matilda snorted. “I may not have the memory, but I have the hangover. Ask at the tavern, I’m sure they can speak for me there.” She rose, addressed the watching crowd. “Good neighbors, I am sure many of you saw what happened yesterday. An’ you love me, tell the bailiff truly what happened.”

She sat again on the hay, leaned against the fence. “I place my fate in their hands, bailiff. I can say no more.”

Gervase Rotour motioned to one of his men. “Stay with her. Watch her, protect her.” He went forth into the crowd.

An old gaffer, with keen ears for his age, nudged the bailiff. “Heh, ‘set-to.’ Bailiff, it did these old eyes good. All the brave merchants truckling to Thorolf these past years—and it took a woman to handle him right proper. Horsewhipped him, she did! You should have seen him hopping! He was running for his horse, but the sight of a screaming woman with a whip panicked the beast. Yes, sir! Lamed himself trying to escape, did that horse.”

The sweetmonger was nearby. “He speaks truth. I don’t think Matilda ever hit Thorolf with her whip, but she came close. A while later, after Thorolf rode past my booth, she walked by headed in the direction of the tavern.”

A cloth merchant spoke. “My wife and I have the next place over.” He swept his hand to indicate the brightly-colored display. “About two hours after sunset, a horse in riding tack came to the paddock all lathered up. I recognized Matilda’s mark on the saddle, so I let him in through the gate and unsaddled him.”

The woman holding the cloth merchant’s arm said “Matilda fell over our tent ropes, about the same time my husband was caring for the horse. I got her up, and tucked her away in her shed.”

A babble of voices broke out, confirming Matilda’s story in every detail and embroidering upon Thorolf’s discomfiture. When there was no more information to be gleaned, Gervase and his men withdrew—this time to the center of the paddock, farther from listening ears.

“Men,” Gervase began, “we’ve learned more than we expected. And right now, it doesn’t seem to be worth much. We’ll have to check the tavern to see if Matilda was there, but I expect she was. That leaves Ragnar Forkbeard as our chief suspect—at least Otkel seems to think so. He should know Thorolf’s enemies.

“Dirk and I will go to the tavern. The rest of you, poke about and see what you can learn of Ragnar’s activities. Try not to arouse his suspicions.” Three troopers scattered, while the fourth remained with Matilda.

The tavern had a canvas fly, keeping sun and rain from a patch of ground the size of a large room. Rushes were strewn on the ground, and three-legged stools scattered about. The tables were sections cut from a very large tree, and smaller tree-chunks supplemented the stools. At one end an enclosed wagon was drawn up, with casks protruding from the rear and sausages and cheese hanging from the roof. Dozens of wooden mugs hung from pegs around the frame, and dimly within, bottles and loaves could be seen. The tavernkeeper was near the wagon. His wife and daughter moved about, delivering full mugs and collecting empty ones.

Gervase gave the tavernkeeper a silver penny. “A pint of bitter, bread and cheese. What will you have, Dirk?”

Dirk scratched absently at his stubble as he thought. “Ale, and sausage. Garlic sausage.”

The tavernkeeper was named Tony, a tall, slat-thin man wearing shirt and breeches. Tucked into the band of his well-used apron was a large knife. He drew it, sliced cheese and sausage from his collection. He set mugs below the casks and pulled on the spigots: two streams arched forth, one dark and one golden. Gervase and Dirk took their mugs and drank in unison, sighed appreciation in unison.

“Ah,” the bailiff said, wiping his mustache. “Murders are thirsty work.”

“Tell me, Tony,” he continued. “People talk at taverns. What have they been talking about?”

The tavernkeeper looked thoughtful, and drew himself a half-pint. “Well, most of yesterday people were talking of Thorolf’s face-off with Ragnar. But a little before sundown, everybody was laughing over Matilda using a whip on him. I must say, the laughter seemed sincere—but it had a nervous edge.”

“Matilda says she came here, but can’t remember anything afterwards.”

“Yea, that’s the truth of it. She arrived very soon after the story did. Normally, she likes her pint of stout—but last night she was drinking ice wine. She definitely was in a hurry to get drunk. And half the merchants in the place were lined up to pay for her next drink. Maude tried to help her back to the paddock, but Matilda said she didn’t need help. I’m surprised she was able to walk that far.”

“She didn’t make it all the way,” the bailiff said. Tony nodded.

Two men, drovers by the look of them, came up to the wagon. “Ale!” they said. The tavernkeeper was silent a moment as he drew it.

“I didn’t realize quite how much the merchants disliked Thorolf,” Tony continued as the drovers seated themselves where they could look out over the crowd. “There was grumbling, especially when they were in their cups. But last night, they were toasting his downfall.”

“Who were the merchants doing the toasting? Who was buying the drinks?”

“Mostly the toasts came from local merchants, and traders from the North. The carters were buying a lot of the drinks, but I think that was because Matilda is a horse person rather than because of Thorolf. I don’t doubt most of them have wanted to take whip to the occasional rich man themselves.

“Then too, there was a lot of sympathy for Matilda. More than once, I heard people say something terrible would happen to her for this—that a man like Thorolf lost all his power if he let this sort of thing pass.”

“They were right, too,” Gervase said. “For Matilda, Thorolf’s death is probably the best thing that could have happened. She’d be my chief suspect, if she hadn’t had a hundred witnesses helping her get drunk at the time Thorolf was killed.”

A woman arrived with a pail. Tony filled it with bitter, and gave her the cheese she pointed at, put her coin in his pouch, and watched her disappear into the confusion of the fair. “She’s not out of the woods yet,” he mused. “Who knows what Thorolf’s men will do?”

A burly Northman came up, wearing a wool tunic and breeches. With him was a small southerner in doublet and hose. They paid for their ale and sausage, then the ill-assorted pair went to a table well away from the others and huddled over it, talking and eating. A family bought bread and bitter.

Tony’s wife, Maude, came up to the trio. “You can talk later, Tony. There are people headed our way.” She poured ale, grabbed a loaf of bread, and headed back into the crowd already there.

“It’s coming on noon. As Maude says, if you still have questions we’ll have to talk later.” Tony turned to his customers. There were half a dozen, clamoring for ale and bitter, bread and cheese and sausage, apples—his entire stock. Maude and Tony wove an intricate dance around the kegs, pouring ale without getting in each other’s way.

“I’d say it’s time for us to get to work, too,” Gervase said to Dirk. They parted. Dirk went to join two drovers as unshaven as himself, while Gervase sat at a table with a prosperous-appearing Northman. He nursed his ale and cheese in silence.

A discussion grew at Dirk’s table, became louder and more heated. “Of course Matilda killed Thorolf—her, or a friend of hers! It was the only sensible thing to do!” Dirk’s voice rose drunkenly. The drovers disagreed, loudly and at length.

Gervase thought that was one of the finest openings Dirk had ever manufactured for him. He turned to his companion. “Those two have the right of it,” he said. “Matilda? Ha! The whole thing started when Thorolf was fool enough to threaten Ragnar Forkbeard. Anybody knows a man like Ragnar wouldn’t allow that without taking action.”

The Northman’s teeth flashed. “Let me tell you about Ragnar, friend.”

Chapter 4

Monday: Startling News

With the smell of smoke and breakfast, the crackle of fire, birdsong, sleepy voices in the distance, and daylight beginning to glow through the canvas roof of the booth, Ragnar came slowly to wakefulness. He lay in warmth between his bearskins, eyes closed, listening to the breathing and the snores of his crew.

But it was the first day of the fair—no time for sleep. He rose, scrabbled his feet into sandals, wriggled into a work tunic, and buckled on his belt with its sword, dagger, and pouch. Shuffling, not fully awake, he threaded his way to the door. Men were everywhere, sleeping on the benches and the floor, covered with blankets, furs, and cloaks. Some were beginning to stir.

Outside, all was misty. Some of the nearer booths and tents were pale areas of color, fading in the distance into grayness. Ragnar shivered from the chill, picked up his pace, and went rapidly to Gunnar’s fire behind the booths. Knute was already there, helping Gunnar, and studying the way he controlled the fire under the cauldron.

Gunnar knew his leader. As soon as Ragnar appeared, he ladled out a soapstone bowl of hot broth, and handed it to him. Silently Ragnar took it, sat on a log, and began to sip. Silently Gunnar tore off a huge piece of barley bread, which Ragnar dipped in the broth.

“I butchered the buck, then threw the leavings in the river after most people were asleep,” Gunnar said quietly, after some while. “He’s in the other cauldron, simmering. I’ll buy onions and barley from one of the merchants once the fair gets going, and it should be ready a little after noon.”

“Ah,” Ragnar smiled. “Be sure to use lots of sage. I like sage.” He bit off another chunk of bread, chewed. “What do you think of yesterday?”

Gunnar considered the question. “Thorolf isn’t our problem. His world is going too well. But we’d better watch out for Otkel. He looks restless from being in Thorolf’s shadow.”

“Is that just an opinion, or is it one of your prophecies? You know it’s hard for you to keep a level head around Otkel.”

“I kept my head when he tried to take it off me.”

“That
is
a hard thing to forget, or forgive. I would have helped you, but I was busy with Thorolf at the time.”

Gunnar shrugged, made a dismissive gesture. “It just feels like an opinion to me. But it’d match up with Otkel’s past deeds.”

Knute had heard the stories, growing up, of the famous battle between Snorri’s faction and Thorolf’s faction. Now it looked like he might be caught up in its aftermath.
Be silent. Listen.
Those were his father’s words, and they seemed very appropriate for a time like this.

Men were drifting up to the fire now, holding out their bowls to Gunnar. Slowly, Northmen came to rest on the seating logs. Disheveled from sleep, surrounded by fog, they were a gloomy crew; but the hot food helped cheer them up.

One, red-eyed and nursing a hangover, spoke. “I drank too much. There are trolls in my head, with hammers, trying to get out. But the party was worth it!”

Several of his comrades, some in better condition and others in worse, agreed. “Aye!” “Tony has good ale!” “Thorolf horsewhipped! I haven’t laughed so hard in ages!”

Heads picked up all around the circle, and eyes focussed on the speaker. “Thorolf horsewhipped?” Ragnar asked. “This is news to me!” A mutter of assent rose.

Slowly at first, then words tumbling over one another, the men who’d been at the tavern told the tale of Thorolf’s discomfiture. Spirits rose, and laughter long and loud.

Still quivering, Ragnar wiped his eyes. “And me at the abbey so I missed it all,” he lamented. “I’ve never in my life so regretted going to church.” And chuckling still, he walked off toward the river, to wash himself in water fresh from the North.

Ragnar pictured Thorolf’s wooing in his mind’s eye. Nobody at the tavern had been sure what Thorolf had done, but the results had certainly been spectacular.
Matilda, for Frey’s sake!
Everybody knew Matilda was one of the gentlest women on Earth!

He knelt at the riverbank, and began to wash his head and shoulders. “BbbbbbBB!” he blew through his lips from the chill.
That’s what you needed, Thorolf—a cold bath.

Gallantly speak, and presents bring(When wishing to win a woman’s love.(Praise the beauty of the maiden:(Courting well will conquer.

When he returned, cheeks glowing from the spring-cold water, the fog had begun to lift and the men were thoroughly awake. Ragnar set them to work. “Get those display tables set up! Knute, pick a nice sampling of merchandise. Put it on display when the tables are ready! Atli, stand watch!” Two booths down, Olaf was preparing his display furniture. The furs and cloth would stay in his booth until the fog lifted completely.

Ragnar went inside to dress in clothes befitting a master merchant. First he put on bright breeches and soft elkhide boots, then a damask tunic trimmed with fur. He slipped on silver arm-rings, then pinned on a short cloak with a massive silver brooch. His belt had a buckle carved of moose antler, and a dagger with staghorn handle of his own making. His shortsword had been made by James Smith, of iron he himself had supplied. Finally he combed his hair and plaited his beard neatly.