Secret Murder: Who Shall Judge? (6 page)

He was touching up the display tables as the fair began coming to life. There was a hubbub down the way, a number of merchants gathered together, then one of his men, Atli’s brother Ari, broke from the group and came running back to the booth.

“A rider just got here! He says Thorolf is dead, on the road to Northlanding!”

Ragnar carefully adjusted the position of an inlaid dagger before he looked up. “It would seem this fair has not been one of Thorolf’s luckier ventures.

“Ari, you have sharp ears. Your brother Atli has good eyes. Take horses, and the two of you see what is happening. I want to know what the bailiff is doing, I want to know what Thorolf’s men are doing. If you find something I should hear about, one of you should come back—but leave the other behind, to keep watch. Now off with you!”

He turned. “Olaf! Important news!” he called, and motioned. Olaf left his men to set out the furs, and came over. A southerner rode up to them—Ragnar recognized him as a wine merchant—and dismounted. “Thorolf is dead!” the merchant told them.

Olaf’s eyes widened. “I’ve just been told,” Ragnar said. “Are you the rider that brought the news? What happened?”

“I stayed the night in Northlanding, and started for the fair at dawn. Right off I met a runner, who said Thorolf was dead and he was going for the bailiff. Thorolf’s body was just the Northlanding side of the abbey road. Benedict was there, watching over Thorolf’s corpse. It looked to be an arrow that did Thorolf in.”

“The trolls take Thorolf!” Olaf exclaimed. “We had to face him down yesterday. Now that somebody’s put an arrow in him, everybody will remember that and come asking us questions.”

“That’s why I’m warning you,” the man said. “We merchants have to stick together. Thorolf was leeching off us for too long as it was—I’d hate to see him take one of us with him into death.”

The southerner mounted, wheeled his horse. “I have to get back to my wares before my helpers drink all the stock.” And he rode off toward the wine-merchants quarter.

Ragnar watched him thoughtfully. “He seems to think one of us did it. Let’s hope not too many feel that way.”

Olaf shrugged. “It’s not worth worrying about. We’ve more than enough men to handle Otkel and the others if they make a fuss. And Thorolf was outlawed – who cares who kills him? It’ll be a bother, but we’re only here for a week.”

“The baron cares. Why do you think that Southerner was talking about Thorolf taking companions onto his pyre?” Ragnar saw Olaf still didn’t understand.

“You’ve mostly traded to the east, where customs are more reasonable. The laws are different here. Except for self-defense, you’ve got to be some kind of lawman or soldier before you’re allowed to kill people. Do it yourself, and they’ll hang you. It’s called justice.”

Olaf was outraged. “That’s terrible! Thorolf killed Snorri Crow, right?”

“I was there when it happened.”

“The judges at the Althing pronounced full outlawry on him for the killing?”

“
Many
of us were there when that happened.”

“And if we caught him in Surtsheim district, we could legally kill him?”

“If I caught him there, I’d have done it myself. But he left too rapidly.”

“Now I come a few days downriver, and if I kill Thorolf some lousy English king who’s never heard of me, or Thorolf, or Snorri for that matter, is going to have his sheriff or bailiff or somebody hang me for it?”

“I think this king is from the French branch of the ruling family, but you seem to have a fair grasp on the matter.”

Olaf subsided into mutters and grumbles. “Damn if I’d want to have a king like that around. If the people who have to live with Thorolf decide the world would be better without him, who needs some stranger second-guessing us? Does he think he has a monopoly on justice, like the Miklagarders have on silk?”

Ragnar shrugged. “The customs are familiar at home, but you can’t be a trader there. How much iron could I sell in Surtsheim? How much brocade could you sell in Miklagard? English money may have the face of their king on it, but melt it down to silver and it makes as good an arm-ring as any other silver. Anyway, the bailiff wouldn’t act without evidence, and I don’t think he has any pointing to us. But Thorolf’s troubles started with us, and we may hear from Otkel about it yet. He’s not the sort to worry about proof.

“They’ll want a funeral, and it will take them all day to arrange one. We should try to get in as much trade as we can today, because tomorrow might be—interesting.” Ragnar stroked his beard. “I think from now on, we’d better travel about in groups.

“And now—yes, good sir?” Ragnar turned to his wares, and the townsman examining one of his inlaid daggers. The customer looked modestly prosperous. “Finest iron, from Surtsheim,” he assured the man. “I smelted it myself. Surtsheim iron is tougher than most.”

“This is the kind of knife I want,” the man said, “but maybe a bit smaller. It’s a gift for my son.”

Ragnar reached beneath the display, lifted a small chest onto a side table. “I have quite a few more.” He searched about in the chest, pulled out a smaller knife decorated with niello, showed it proudly. “Two shillings, and worth every penny of it.”

“That’s a lot for a knife.”

“Mainly, I sell iron,” Ragnar admitted. “And a shipload of iron is heavy. So everything else I bring has to be worth a lot for what it weighs. I haven’t got the freeboard to carry cheap knives. But Surtsheim is filled with iron-workers, who make handsome things. I always bring fine merchandise to sell.

“I
could
lower the price some. Wouldn’t it be good for you and your son to have matching knives? If you bought both the small knife and the large, I could let you have the pair for three shilling sixpence. These two knives are special: I made the larger one, and my son Knute made the smaller. It would be appropriate for a matching pair, and I can drop the price for the appropriateness.”

“...eight mansweights of iron
and
a mansweight of antler, then, for your glasswares and ten barrels of wine.”

“Done!”

Ragnar and the sun-darkened river captain shook hands. “Gunnar!” Ragnar shouted back into the booth. “Two horns of ale!” Gunnar brought them out, smiling through his dark beard. Ragnar and the captain linked arms and drank to seal the bargain.

“You’re tied up at the landing below the falls. My men will deliver the iron to your riverboat, and your men can deliver the glass and barrels to mine.”

The captain looked over to the boats at the landing. “It’s strange as strange. Two craft as unlike as ours, and both called riverboats.”

“It’s a different river above the Great Falls, even if it is the same water,” Ragnar replied. “I have to be able to portage around rapids. I can imagine trundling a flat-bottom like your
Lady Jane
along a trail on rollers.” Both men laughed immoderately, a gold earring twinkling and dancing below the southerner’s ear.

“Knute!” Ragnar called out. “Get some pack horses from our dozen, and start carrying iron to Captain Henry’s boat. He’s bought eight mansweights.”

“We’ve got mostly riding horses,” Knute’s reply floated back. “Benedict was supposed to be here with more pack horses by the time business started.”

“He must have been held up,”
And I hope the bailiff doesn’t hold him up much longer,
Ragnar thought to himself. “Go rent pack horses from Matilda, then!”

“Right!” Knute grabbed two other men, and they trotted off in the direction of Matilda’s paddock, vanishing between two tents across the way.

Soon they returned, each leading two horses. “Matilda had a two-man hangover,” Knute said with just the right mixture of sympathy and smugness, “and her only one woman. That ice-wine will do it to you every time.” They gathered up more Northmen, and headed off toward the boats and the iron.

“I’ll go along with them,” Captain Henry said. “With only six horses, they’ll have to make at least two trips. The horses can carry glasswares as they return.”

“It sounds reasonable to me,” Ragnar noted. “But if I’m supplying horses for your loads, it’s only fair you open up your stock of wine. My men are a thirsty lot, and they work better for a man who stands them drinks.”

The captain punched Ragnar’s shoulder, and drained his horn. “Me too—that’s why I’m in the wine business. I’ll try to leave them capable of walking back.” Then he went toward the boats. Three of the men had boarded Ragnar’s lead ship, and were lofting bars of iron over the gunwales into a pile on the beach below. The other six each held a horse’s harness, well away from the flying objects and the noise.

Ragnar noticed movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned to see a well-to-do housewife examining his silver jewelry. She held out a length of handsome blue cloth, carried over her left forearm.

“I just bought this cloth two booths over, for to make a light cloak. Now I’ll be wanting a clasp for it, and the gentleman told me you’d be having just what I needed.”

“Why, that I do, goodwife!” Ragnar picked up a circle-brooch of silver, its pin decorated with a shining gray-black cabochon. “The latest fashion in Surtsheim district. See how the hematite stone sets off the blue of the cloth?” He held it near her elbow, where the fabric gathered into folds.

For the moment, Ragnar had no customers. He let his eyes roam across the fairgrounds: the bright tents and banners, the gaily-clad townsfolk, the peasants there to gape at things they couldn’t afford—and maybe, to buy a small trinket if the price were right. The mood was brighter today: the merchants still were unobtrusively armed, but the crowd laughed and swirled with only the ever-present eating daggers and the occasional young bravo with a sword slapping against his thigh.

He looked over at Olaf’s booth. The powerful figure was deep in conversation with a covey of fops, holding out brocade to them, stroking it as a mother would stroke her child. Ragnar could hear him speaking of the looms of far Miklagard, the long river journey, the storms of the big seas—and all so they, fortunate gentlemen, could see this finest of fabrics.

Now there’s a man who loves his work,
Ragnar thought. He turned back to the crowd, and saw Atli hurrying toward him, leading two horses.

He arrived panting. “Gunnar! Ale!” Ragnar called. “Sit down, Atli. Catch your breath.” Gunnar brought a horn for Atli, who downed it gratefully and held it out for a refill. He took a sip, and sighed deeply.

“The bailiff is here at the fair, questioning Matilda,” Atli began. He went on to recount the events of the morning. “They kept the crowd well away from Thorolf’s body, so we couldn’t hear anything. Otkel and the bailiff spoke for a long time, then Thorolf’s men prepared to take his body away. Suddenly Otkel got off his horse, examined the body, and went over to the bailiff. They appeared to have some kind of argument. Otkel and the others left, and the bailiff dismissed us all.

“We followed the bailiff and his men directly to Matilda’s. They aren’t pushing the crowd quite as far back, there; my brother stayed to hear what he could. His ears are sharper than mine. I brought the horses with me, to free him up.”

Ragnar smiled.

Guests should be cautious when they come to table,(And sit in careful silence,(Ears attentive, eyes alert:(Thus they protect themselves.

“You and Ari have done well this morning. This situation could be dangerous for all of us, here under English law. The bailiff seems to be looking elsewhere, though I doubt Matilda is in danger. She had too many people watching her last night at the tavern. Otkel is probably our chief worry. We should know more of his actions.

“They’ll be arranging Thorolf’s pyre at the sacred grove. It’s been some time since you last sacrificed—perhaps this reminder of death in a foreign land might lead you to seek the favor of the gods?”

Ragnar reached to his neck for a leather thong, and pulled a silver Thor’s Hammer from beneath his tunic. He placed it around Atli’s neck. “Take this: good service demands good reward. There’ll be a hammer for Ari, too. Go now, and see what Otkel and the rest of the funeral party are up to.”

As Atli left, Benedict arrived with the packhorses and his men. There was a great crowd swirling about them, because everybody knew they had found the body. They were checking with him before they headed for the paddock. Ragnar wanted very much to follow and hear Benedict’s tale. But he saw one of the local ironworkers, a steady customer, heading his way. An urchin whose looks he misliked was eyeing some of his more portable wares. And off in the distance Knute and the others were coming back from carrying iron to Captain Henry’s boat. They seemed very jolly. The captain must have wined them well.

Too many things were happening at once. The muscles in his jaw knotted and his forked beard quivered as he tried to attend to them all, and failed. Then his world simplified – the customer had arrived.
Let the others talk to Benedict, then. He’ll still be around later.

“Good day, Ragnar! How was your voyage down to the fair?” said the ironworker.

“Excellent as always, my friend. The river flows rapidly and deep in the springtime. But I’d hate to row back upstream with a heavy cargo. Would you know anybody who might like to take some iron off my hands?”

Ragnar and the ironworker were concluding their sale. Ragnar had his scale out, was weighing silver offered in payment. “Your bar is several ounces heavier than we agreed upon,” he said. “I’ll have to pay back the difference.” He pulled a plain silver arm-ring off, hefted it, then straightened out a section. His small hatchet flashed down on a cutting-block; he weighed the piece, then added several small coins from his pouch until the scales balanced. He pushed the silver across to his customer.

Ragnar took tongs from beneath the table, twisted the end of the remaining arm-ring so the sharp edges couldn’t catch the cloth. He put the ring back on.

“Knute!” he cried. “We’ve another three mansweights of iron to deliver, to Northlanding this time.”

“I’ve sent several men to take the rented horses back. Now that Benedict’s here, we have enough horses ourselves. I’ll get right to it.” Knute began gathering men from the crowd around Benedict, to the accompaniment of muffled grumbling.