Secret Murder: Who Shall Judge? (9 page)

They mounted, and walked the horses out along the path, toward the Northlanding road to the East. The Welshman stood in the stable entrance, looking alternately at Otkel’s group and the Northmen on the burning-knoll.

Yes, help us in whatever ways you can,
Otkel thought.
I hope they think of a few jobs for you to do. Interesting ones.

“I’d think the temple servants could handle errands for the men building the pyre,” Leif said. “Things could get complicated in Northlanding. Maybe we should have brought him.”

“I don’t like being followed about by lawmen,” Otkel replied.

It was half an hour’s easy ride to town—close enough to be convenient, far enough to spare the Bishop of Northlanding from a Norse temple on his doorstep. Conversation flickered and died, and they spent the latter part of the journey wrapped in silence, each with his own thoughts. Oak gave way to elm, elm to fields.

They came into the city at the western gate, their horses’ hooves clattering on the cobblestones of the Sunset Road. Traffic was different here. On the fairgrounds road there had been merchants, buyers, people headed for the fair. Here, people rode sleeker horses or none at all, and Otkel recognized fewer faces.

The Angelus bell rang for noon as they were passing the cathedral, a deep resonant sound. Many of the people around them stopped for a brief moment of prayer. Out of the corner of his eye, Otkel saw Leif’s lips moving in silent speech.
Angels and virgins, bah!
Otkel thought.
But that church has some nice treasures. One of these days, when I get tired of the merchant’s life....

But I don’t think I’ll take Leif along on the raid. So the day’s only half-done? It’s felt like forever.

They turned left, and headed north into the merchants’ quarter. They met several groups of porters and carters, carrying merchandise to and from the fair. A train of horses was bringing bolts of cloth into Benedict’s yard.

The gate was open at their warehouse, with several servants waiting by it. Nobody else was in the yard. When the overseer saw the Northmen, he seemed nervous.

“Well?” Otkel asked, as he dismounted and tossed the reins to a stablehand. “You’re just standing around? Haven’t you got merchandise to sort out inside? We were supposed to be getting iron, copper, wine, furs, and lots of seasoned oak timbers. And spices.”

“Master, we’ve been waiting all morning ready for the shipments, just as you told us. But none have come.”

“Hel take those merchants!” Otkel swore. “Do they think just because Thorolf is dead, their deals are dead also? They’ll learn otherwise, tomorrow!” He snatched the axe from his shoulder and hurled it across the yard, where it struck deep into a post at chest-height. The post was heavily scarred from weapons practice, and it split apart from the blow.

Startled by Otkel’s sudden motion, the horses reared up. The stableman fought them back under control. Otkel backhanded him. “Watch what you’re doing more closely!” Then Otkel turned to the overseer.

“You have the list. Go to the fair, and talk to the merchants we have bargains with. Tell them I’ll be speaking tomorrow with those that don’t deliver today.” And Otkel stalked off toward the house.

“I think Starkad is lucky he backed down,” Leif murmured to Hermund as they followed.

They went in the warehouse through the main door to the yard. In the light seeping through the barred and shuttered windows they saw dim mounds of boxes, heaps of iron bars, and bundles of wool, flax, fur and cloth. The scent of pine tar was everywhere. Threading their way to the front, they climbed the staircase into the greathall.

Here above the street, away from prying eyes and reaching hands, the shutters were open and the windows flung wide. Fresh and fragrant rushes covered the floor, and all the metal was polished. The servants had worked at housekeeping for weeks, preparing for the trade fair. Thorolf dearly loved playing the open-handed host in his hall. Many merchants had shared his feast–and not a few gladly. The room smelled of springtime, but now Otkel would be host.

“We’ll want his shield.” Otkel pointed to where it hung on the wall behind the high-seat. “He was wearing his sword, and carrying his polearm, so they’re already at the grove. Then, there’s his drinking horn....” The Northmen set to work gathering valuables into a small pile in the center of the hall. Soon they’d gotten everything appropriate in sight.

“Leif, why don’t you check the solar to see if there’s anything there? Hermund and I will see what should be taken from Thorolf’s room.” The hall was most of upstairs, and the men slept on benches along the walls. At the south end was a solar, a small cheerful room with a stained-glass window, where Thorolf could discuss business in private. At the north end, a small room where Otkel slept, and a larger room where Thorolf had slept and kept his treasury.

Otkel and Hermund crossed the hall, opened the door, went in. There were oiled-parchment windows on two walls, and a silk hanging on a third. Thorolf’s bed was piled high with rare and beautiful white bear furs, and one was on the floor. At the head of the bed was a massive log chest, wrapped with iron straps studded with many nails. It had three padlocks. Leaning in the corner were half-a-dozen different pole weapons.

Otkel went to the windows, swung them open to catch the breeze, then turned back to find Hermund stripping the furs from the bed. “I think Thorolf will rest more easily on these.”

That is going to be my bed, and it is going to have white furs,
Otkel thought. “I don’t know as he’ll need the warmth on his pyre.”

He looked about. That wall-hanging was appliqued in elaborate Ringerike style, and Otkel detested Ringerike. “Look. That’s his favorite hanging, and it’s got wonderful decorations. It would make a handsome drapery on his pyre, for him to rest upon. Then there’s the satin cushion in the solar for his head.”

“You know, that does sound better. He was immensely proud of that hanging. How many times have we heard him tell guests how it was brought across the sea from old Norway?” Hermund dropped the furs back on the bed, and he and Otkel took the hanging down and folded it carefully.

“It seems to me,” Otkel added, “that Thorolf will want to make a good display in Odin’s halls. We’ll burn several of his best tunics and such with him. And then there’ll be the battles. Maybe we’d better take along a halberd for him, and an extra sword or two. You’re a good halbardier—pick out the best we have.”

Hermund went over to the pole-weapons, while Otkel opened Thorolf’s clothes-chest and began taking out tunics. He found three keys also, and quietly slipped them in his pouch while Hermund’s attention was on the weapons.

They took their choices out into the main hall, and found that Leif had already gotten the satin cushion, and a number of other things. It made a rich pile, and they looked at it in satisfaction.

“We couldn’t do much better unless we brought him here, set him in his high-seat, and burned the warehouse down around him. But the fire wardens wouldn’t like that.” Otkel clapped his hands. “Let’s get the servants to packing this.”

Leif frowned. “There should be more silver.”

“Silver is for the living. Thorolf will need weapons in Valhalla, for the battles, and clothing and some jewelry for the show. But with Odin as lord and ring-giver, what need will Thorolf have of more silver than he can wear?

“Besides, his treasure-chest is too heavy to move. The keys aren’t in his clothes-chest. They could be in his pouch, but the bailiff has that. It’ll take a while to get it open, time we don’t have now.

“I have jewelry Thorolf gave me. We
all
have his ring-gifts. I say we each put the silver he’s given us on his pyre, so he’ll have testimony to his generosity in Odin’s halls.

“Then, after the fair is over, after we’ve taken our vengeance on Thorolf’s killer, we can have a smith in and get the treasure-chest opened. And I pledge to be as open-handed with those treasures as ever Thorolf was.”

Otkel called the chief cook over. “You know how Thorolf had you preparing for a feast? We’ll invite the people at his funeral to keep it. Start roasting the geese an hour before sunset, and the timing should be right.”

Soon they were riding back to the grove, followed by pack horses laden with grave-goods. Their mood had lightened considerably. Leif felt better knowing Thorolf would have a pyre worthy of his status. Hermund was relieved to see Otkel turning into a decisive and capable leader. And Otkel was glad to see the men falling into line.
We’ll show those merchants, tomorrow,
he thought.

As they entered the clearing, they saw another man dismounting by the god-posts. He wore a magnificent Thor’s Hammer—they could see it even at this distance. He prostrated himself before the bearded figures.

As they rode past, they heard him saying, “Now I come to you with these offerings,” as he placed bread, onions, meat and ice-wine before the gods. “I want you to send us merchants who have much silver, and will buy on our terms without being difficult.” And again he prostrated himself.

“That looks like Atli, from back in Surtsheim,” Leif noted. “He was just starting to grow his beard when we left. He seems to be rising in the world these past few years.”

A sour look came over Otkel’s face. “I don’t like the company he keeps. Wasn’t he with Ragnar yesterday?”

“That was yesterday,” Hermund said. “And it may be important again tomorrow. But this is holy ground, and a time for memories of Thorolf’s virtues and not others’ faults.” They passed on up the hill.

Chapter 7

Monday: Gifts to Odin, and to Men

Gods gleamed, in firelight and the rays of the setting sun slanting through the windows. Under their gaze, Otkel lit his oak-brand from the sacred flame in the longhouse. He carried the fire out the door—how it diminished in daylight!—and solemnly walked the path down one hill and up the other, joining the twelve men in a circle round Thorolf’s pyre. Travelling sunwise he kindled their brands one by one from his own, then took his place at the head of the pyre.

Below, the woods had darkened. The day birds were singing their evening songs, while one early nighthawk darted through the air screaming his thin cry. The last rays of the sun shone upon Thorolf on his high bed. A heap of silver lay upon his chest, and swords were at his side. The hanging, draped over his pyre, blazed with color. Fantastic beasts writhed and twined and struggled in silence, a silence joined by Thorolf’s men and by the small group of mourners off to one side.

The sun touched the earth. From the other hill, two priests sounded their lur-horns. Otkel thrust his firebrand into the pyre below Thorolf’s head. “Now I give you to Odin,” he proclaimed in a strong voice. The pyre, of oak and ash and elm, began to burn.

Flames spread as the other men also put their brands to the pyre. “Now we give you to Odin,” they said in chorus. Leif was silent, but he thrust his firebrand forth with the others.

The sun went beyond the edge of the world. The fire grew. Slowly light shifted, until they were illuminated solely by the glow of Thorolf’s pyre. Flames and smoke rose straight. The embroidered animals were gone now, the tunics lumps and flame-edged tatters, the pillow a hard black stone, Thorolf’s body a charring stick-man purged of all Earthly seeming. His polearm and the halberd picked by Hermund stood sentinel, one on either side.

The iron-bound shaft of the halberd began to give, and it leaned slowly against the polearm. The polearm’s shaft cracked, buckled, and broke. The iron heads fell onto the pyre and shook loose a shower of sparks rising to the heavens. A wind came up, fanning the flames, carrying the glittering smoke toward the longhouse of the gods on the other knoll.

Hermund laughed hugely. “Odin loves Thorolf! He sends a wind to carry him to Valhalla!” Over the crackle of the flames they could hear the wind rushing through the treetops below; then the wind died down.

Otkel turned to a tripod behind him, lifted a huge cup and held it high. “The cup of Bragi,” he cried. “Let us drink of the funeral ale, in memory of our leader and in praise of the god to whom he has gone!” He brought it to his mouth, tilted, drank. Firelight gleamed from the golden figures, flickered deep in the blood-red garnets studded about the curve of the cup.

Otkel turned to Hermund at his left, handed him the cup. “To Thorolf, to Odin, and to vengeance.” Hermund repeated his words, drank deeply. He passed the cup to the next man. “To Thorolf, to Odin, and to vengeance.”

The cup traveled around the circle, came back to Otkel. He drained it, held it high. “To Thorolf, to Odin, and to vengeance!” he and all the men cried in one voice. Otkel placed the bragarfull cup back on its tripod, and stood before it, lit from behind by the pyre. He spread his arms for silence. He spoke.

“Thorolf was our leader. Powerful of spirit, an open-handed ring-giver, he was a man of many ventures. Friends looked to him for protection, enemies feared him, rich men worried when they heard of his approach. Such men seldom die in bed.

“Nor did Thorolf. He died wealthy, with strong followers to give him a worthy pyre. But he did not die in battle. By all accounts he never had a chance to face his foe. Nor has anybody come forth to claim his death. Death in combat is the due of the leader of warriors – it’s shameful that Thorolf should die without the chance to battle against his nameless attacker.

“I curse whoever has shamed Thorolf, and call down the wrath of Odin upon him. Let Thorolf’s true men discover who did such dishonor, and take vengeance. Let Odin guide us in this. And let us carry out Thorolf’s plans and deeds as if he were still with us, rather than letting his actions be forgotten. No man can ask for a better monument.

“We, Thorolf’s men, are left to do battle for him. We have drunk from the sacred cup. It’s now time for us to swear the bragarfull oath. Here is the oath I propose:

“You have heard my curse, and my prayer. Now I swear to help fulfil them: to take vengeance for Thorolf’s dishonor, and to keep his deeds alive.” Otkel drew his sword, held it above the cup with its point to the heavens. The others drew their swords also, and joined him.