Secret Murder: Who Shall Judge? (7 page)

Olaf’s laughter rose. “You’ve been twice-told about Thorolf, and Benedict did a wonderful job describing Father Hugh being dragged through the bushes behind his donkey. Would
you
like to be dragged through the bushes behind a donkey? I could help Knute arrange it. Don’t be so lazy, even if there isn’t a promise of wine at the end of this trip.”

Suddenly Knute had all the men he needed.

Ragnar, Olaf, and Benedict were in Ragnar’s booth, in earnest discussion with Ari, who was saying, “The bailiff seemed to accept Matilda’s story. But she was very upset, more than you’d expect from a woman who’s just been cleared of suspicion. She may have cared more for Thorolf than she’s willing to admit even to herself.”

“He must have had some reason to romance her,” Ragnar agreed. “And their last parting wasn’t on the best of terms. Sometimes the gravest hurt is the one you do yourself.”

“Somebody should keep an eye on her,” Olaf added. “Whatever she had with Thorolf, she’s earned trouble with Otkel. There are thirty of us. We’re safe, as long as we stay in groups. There’s just one of her.”

One of the horsemen came in. “I just got back from Matilda’s, and heard you were talking of her. She’s in bad shape—just waved at us to let the horses into the paddock, then covered her eyes up again.”

Benedict leaped to his feet. “I’ve had enough of deaths, enough of threats. Worry about Otkel yourselves. Here, by God, is something
I
can handle.” He strode off. “Hob! Joseph!” he cried. “Stir yourself! We’ve horses to care for!” The three walked off in the direction of Matilda’s paddock.

“I wonder if he realizes he just leapt from the cauldron into the fire,” Olaf said dryly.

“Still, he has a point,” Ragnar said as he rose. “Business goes on. I think it’s time to sell more iron, and maybe some fabric and a bit of jewelry to go with the fabric.”

There was a shriek outside, and Gunnar’s voice raised in curses. The four Northmen ran out of the booth and around to the cooking area, loosening their weapons as they went. They found Gunnar by his cauldron, enormous spoon in one hand and a grimly satisfied smile on his face.

“Some scruffy Englishman was snooping around the back of your booth,” he told Ragnar. “He was so busy eavesdropping he didn’t notice me. I got him right on the cheek with boiling stew. He headed off into the crowd as if there were a Northman after him.” Gunnar pointed with his spoon.

“He was probably just a beggar,” Ragnar said. “I think your generosity in giving food to a beggar is very commendable.” They all had a good laugh, then Ragnar and Olaf went back to their sales tables and took them over from their assistants.

Ragnar looked over the crowd with suspicious eyes. It was as brightly-colored as ever, moving ceaselessly to and fro, but he looked for stillness, lack of color. That fellow over there, at the potter’s—he wasn’t really interested in the crock he was examining. And Ragnar’s booth was well within his range of vision.

As Ragnar watched, the potter spoke to the man. Ragnar knew without hearing what the two were saying: “Pardon, friend, is there anything I might interest you in?” “Just looking, just looking.” Shortly the man moved on to the next merchant. Again, Ragnar’s booth was well within his view.

One of the neighboring merchants, a cutler who specialized in Surtsheim iron, came by carrying bread, cheese, and a bucket of ale from the tavern. He hailed Ragnar in a friendly manner. “There certainly have been big happenings! All the merchants are buzzing over Thorolf’s death. They can’t get enough news. I’ve had several people asking me about that confrontation you had with Thorolf, yesterday. And I hear Matilda and the merchants near her paddock have been plagued with questions all day, too.”

Ragnar gave a twisted smile. “It’s a pity nobody saw Thorolf getting killed. That’s the tale most of them would like to hear. But you make do with what’s available.”

“Too true, too true! Must be going, I’m carrying everybody’s lunch. Good sales!” And the cutler strode merrily off, cheese bouncing in its net against his back.

Ragnar gestured to Gunnar to take the sales table, then went over to Olaf. “We’re being watched by Englishmen. Best we do little and say less.”

“What makes you think so?” Olaf asked.

“Well, there was Gunnar’s eavesdropper. And then I saw this fellow over at the potter’s....” Ragnar gestured in that direction, then realized the man was gone.

“Maybe we’re all on edge and seeing things,” Olaf said. “Or maybe the watchers have realized we’ve noticed them, and withdrawn. Either way, the answer’s simple and just what it’s been all day: we sell our wares, and don’t go anywhere alone.”

Olaf noticed a man in a tastefully gaudy herald’s tabard, looking at his booth. He held up a bolt of brilliant red cloth. “Brightly-colored cloth, my lord, guaranteed not to fade! Just the thing for banners!”

The herald approached. “Red cloth doesn’t hold its color well,” he said dubiously.

“Ah, they’ve learned new dyes in Miklagard.” Olaf pointed to pennants flying above his booth. “See those flags? I’ve flown them every fair for a year, and the red is still bright as new.”

“The rope for that banner has turned pink,” the herald pointed out. Ragnar knew from the flicker of expression on Olaf’s face that there would be fresh ropes tomorrow.

Ragnar knew better than to discuss the virtues of cloth. He went back to his table, and soon found himself discussing the virtues of Surtsheim iron instead. Out of the corners of his eyes, he kept watch for watchers, but there no longer seemed to be any.

He’d about decided he’d been imagining things, and was showing iron bells to a jester, when he saw Gervase Rotour and Dirk Cachepol headed his way. They were accompanied by four men.

One of the men seemed to have a scalded cheek, and the collar of his tunic was stained with food. Another was the fellow who’d been at the potter’s.

Chapter 5

Monday: Plain Speech

“This is not a good time or place,” Ragnar told the jester. “Go, now—swiftly.” Ragnar flashed a sidelong glance in the direction of the approaching bailiff.

There was a brief flash of incomprehension on the jester’s brow, which did not fit well with the image of the knowing gleeman. Then the eyes in his homely-handsome face moved to follow Ragnar’s gaze. Bards, jesters, and gleemen have an instant understanding of lawmen in all their manifestations. He gave Ragnar a sympathetic smile, and cartwheeled off to the sound of jingling brass bells.

Ragnar gathered his dignity about him, tried to settle his shrinking stomach, and sat on the chair just outside the door of his booth. It had been expensive, richly carved with a seat of tooled leather, but it had proven its worth many times over. A master merchant is more impressive in a chair befitting his status. An impressive merchant commands better prices. He adjusted the folds in his tunic, and then the bailiff and his men arrived.

Gervase Rotour was dark where Ragnar was ruddy. His clothes were plain, but of Miklagard cloth, and while Ragnar wore many rings and arm-rings of silver, Gervase wore a few massive rings and brooches of dulled gold. His hood had a long liripipe behind, which he tucked up into his belt. The tip hung solidly enough to indicate considerable weight. Was it money, Ragnar wondered, or an unobtrusive truncheon? Or both?

“Good day, Master Ragnar.”

“Good day, Lord Bailiff,” Ragnar replied. “I’ve been wondering if you might not pay me a call. Will you have a seat?” He gestured to the stool beside him, also carved, but not as well, and without a back.

Gervase sat down with a faint smile and a nod. His troopers unobtrusively surrounded them. Ragnar noticed more and more Northmen idly standing nearby. Olaf and the others were paying attention.

Gervase sighed, acknowledging the deadlock of forces. “I speak plainly. One of our richest local merchants is dead, killed from ambush on the road. There could be a great deal of trouble if his slayer is not found immediately.

“Thorolf Pike was seen arguing with you yesterday. Furthermore, you are from Surtsheim. It is no secret that he was outlawed there for the killing of Snorri Crow—and that you were one of Snorri’s men. There are other evidences that suggest you may have been involved in Thorolf’s killing, which I should like to give you a chance to explain.”

“Bailiff,” Ragnar spread his hands, “my conscience is quite clean in this matter. I’m sure I can give satisfactory answers to any questions you may care to ask.”

“Hm,” Gervase said, and was silent for a moment. “You were seen going toward Northlanding early in the afternoon, only a few hours after the argument. You returned after dark. And it is said you visited the abbey. Thorolf was killed just beyond the abbey road, shortly after sundown. You seem to have been very close to the scene of the crime, at the proper time of day.”

“I visited the abbey, that is true, and stayed for Vespers. Darkness came on somewhat more rapidly than I had expected, which slowed my return to the fair.”

“You were armed quite well when you rode out—sword, and a bow. Thorolf was killed by an arrow. Would those be your arrows, inside the door to your booth?” Gervase motioned, and one of his men went to get the quiver. One of Ragnar’s men accompanied the bailiff’s man.

Gervase took one of Ragnar’s arrows, and the arrow which had killed Thorolf. He placed them side by side, and spent a long time comparing them.

“These arrows are very similar,” the bailiff said at last. “Similar fletching, similar nocks, similar arrowheads. Why, both your arrowhead and the head of the arrow that killed Thorolf bear your mark. I should very much like to know how an arrowhead bearing your mark came to be found in Thorolf’s body, hm?”

Ragnar smiled.
At least this is an easy question,
he thought, then whistled. “Gunnar! My small chest—you know the one I mean.” Gunnar went into the booth and returned shortly, carrying a small but heavy iron-bound chest.

Ragnar opened it, revealing hundreds of arrowheads like the two the bailiff had been comparing. “I deal in ironwares, and have sold thousands of arrowheads here over the years. These were made in my own shops, and I’m proud enough of them to have signed them. Anybody could use one—why, the Master of the baronial archers was here just this morning and bought two hundred.

“Examine the arrows more closely. Mine has a pine shaft. The arrow that killed Thorolf has a shaft of maple. There are few maples in Surtsheim district, but many pines, so most Northmen use pine. Furthermore, the places where Thorolf’s arrow-shaft was scraped are not the places I put my identifying marks. Your evidence suggests that Thorolf was killed by a resident of Northlanding, or a visitor from the south. As for my going armed, Benedict told me there were rumors of bandits.”

“The cloak spread behind your booth has a bloodstain on it.”

Sweat trickled down Ragnar’s back. “I carelessly went hunting in it. That’s the blood of an animal. In any case, what does this have to do with Thorolf? Benedict tells me the body was undisturbed. How, then, could bloodstains matter?”

“Certain of your men have been observed behaving in a furtive manner.”

“Many merchants have this trait.”

“This man is your cook.”

“Gunnar isn’t furtive. Could your trooper—the one with the scalded cheek—be trying to convince you that Gunnar crept up on him? Gunnar says the trooper was simply too busy eavesdropping to notice.”

Gervase looked at the trooper in question, and raised one brow. “Hm.”

Ragnar was silent a long moment then, fingers stroking his beard, twisting the sweat from its braided tips. At last he spoke. “Bailiff, Gunnar is a strange man. He was wounded in the head, from behind, in the battle six years ago when Snorri Crow was killed. Since then, he rarely sleeps. Most of the time he is normal—but occasionally he dreams, even while awake and moving about. Some of those dreams have proven prophetic.

“But if he were to kill somebody, it would be Otkel rather than Thorolf. Otkel is the one that struck him from behind. I was there when it happened. I tell you truth: you can safely forget Gunnar in searching for Thorolf’s slayer.”

Gervase was silent. Ragnar took this to signify thought. “Bailiff, plain speech deserves plain reply.

“I and most of my men had given our allegiance to Snorri rather than Thorolf in the matter that led to Snorri’s death and Thorolf’s outlawry. I myself killed two of Thorolf’s men in the battle that followed, and Thorolf killed my foster-brother. Further, yesterday Thorolf was pressuring us to trade with him. This would have cost us all a great deal of profit from this trip. None of us are sad that he has been killed.

“However, it is our law that when we kill a man, we must announce it and submit the matter to the judgement of the community at the yearly Althing if summoned. Otherwise we would be guilty of the serious crime of secret murder. None of my men or Olaf’s has said he killed Thorolf. While they might not tell you English, Thorolf was a Northman. If his killer were one of us, he’d announce it among us. Certainly he wouldn’t fear the consequences, for Thorolf was outlawed and it’s no crime to kill an outlaw. You must seek elsewhere for your killer.”

Ragnar rose, and the bailiff stood with him. They clasped hands in farewell, then Ragnar spoke. “Otkel’s brother-in-law died by secret murder. With legal wiles, Otkel wrested control of the steading away from his own sister. Thorolf had accumulated many riches. And Otkel is famous for his skill with weapons that strike at a distance.”

With that they parted. Ragnar heaved a great sigh of relief. He made the sign of Thor’s Hammer, then the sign of the Cross. “Thor be with me, Christ be with me,” he murmured under his breath. He lifted his arms to ventilate his armpits a bit.

There came a green smell all about him, pungent of autumn herbs. Ragnar turned, to see James Smith.

“He looked to be grilling you pretty hard,” James said. “But at least he went away in the end.”

Ragnar fanned himself. “That was a tricky interview: he was giving me a chance to convince him I didn’t kill Thorolf. I hope I
did
convince him—but let me tell you, I am sweating.” He punched James lightly on the shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here—after the bailiff, a friendly face is a sight for sore eyes. And you’re good for the nostrils, too. You certainly smell better than I must, after that conversation!”