Secret Murder: Who Shall Judge? (12 page)

Gervase jumped back, spun his sword downwards to take the brigand’s sword-arm. But the arm wasn’t there; it was circling down, behind, up, coming at Gervase with a blow from above. The bailiff deflected it, blade still down, and stepped forward to land a heavy blow with his pommel onto the brigand’s helmet.

The man staggered, then turned tail and ran. Gervase heard hoofbeats pounding up behind him, prayed briefly they were his troopers. He threw himself forward, swung his sword backhanded at the fleeing robber, just nicked the back of his leg with the tip of his sword.

The man stumbled, fell, tried to get up. He couldn’t. His foot was at a peculiar angle. He got to his knees, brought up his buckler, then crouched behind it, glaring like a snapping-turtle, sword at the ready. There was a trickle of blood coming from his ankle.

Gervase looked around the clearing. Three troopers had ridden up to join him. The other highwayman was dead. The camp was silent, except for the snorting of horses and the curses of the injured brigand. A wisp of smoke rose from a poorly-quenched campfire.

“We’ll clear all this up later.” Gervase ran for his horse. “Let’s get the ones that rode for it.”

“What about him?” one of his men asked, jerking a thumb at the brigand with the sword.

“Leave him. He’s still dangerous, but he’s hamstrung. How’s he going to escape, hm? And if he does, he’ll never be a highwayman again. He’ll be a beggar.” Gervase swung into the saddle.

“Can’t I shoot him?” asked Rhys, cradling the crossbow.

“Don’t waste the bolt. Keep that crossbow cocked and ready.”

“I’ll not quarrel,” Rhys agreed. They followed the tracker into the woods.

Behind them the injured robber cursed, set down his weapons, pulled himself up by the trunk of a birch. He tried to take a cautious step, and fell. Gervase could hear him begin to weep.
Maybe it would have been kinder to kill him,
the bailiff thought to himself.
But it’s not our job to make life and death easier for highwaymen.

The trail was clear. The bandits were panicked, had no time or care for stealth. Soon Gervase and his troopers were close on the heels of the bandits, whose horses were a sorry lot. The one leading the pack-horse let go of its reins, and it fell behind.

One of the bandits had a horseman’s bow. An arrow whipped past Gervase’ ear, shattered against a tree-trunk. Rhys’ crossbow shot with a whap! The bandit cried out and clutched his shoulder, barely staying in his saddle. “Good man!” Gervase yelled to Rhys.

“I was aiming for his chest,” Rhys shouted back. “This crossbow
definitely
shoots to the left.”

There were three highwaymen left—four with the one Rhys shot. Gervase and four troopers were chasing them. The robber on the best horse screamed “Scatter!” and pulled off to the left. One went ahead, one to the right. The wounded rider let his horse slow to a stop.

“I’ll take the one I shot!” Rhys shouted as he slowed.

Gervase motioned to the trooper closest to him, and took after the robber with the good horse. “That looks like their chief!”

The other two troopers split up to follow the remaining two bandits.

The bandit chief had left the trail. Tree-branches whipped at their faces and bodies. Ferns and bushes hid the ground. A branch snagged Gervase’s tunic, almost pulled him off his horse. His trooper surged ahead, swung his shortsword at the bandit. The bandit ducked, swung back. Their swords clashed with a dull sound. The trooper’s horse wheeled so he could wield his sword more comfortably.

That bandit’s a good fighter
, Gervase thought as he spurred forward.
But it sounds like his sword is made from soft iron.
He closed in with his longer sword, feinted a stroke at the bandit, but focussed his aim on the bandit’s sword. He hit. The shorter sword bent nearly at a right angle, was torn from the bandit’s hand. Before the man could recover, the trooper reached out, grabbed the bandit’s arm, and pulled him from his horse. He hit the ground, and Gervase landed on him heavily. Air whooshed out of the bandit, and by the time he’d recovered his breath, his hands were tied behind him.

“Catch his horse and get the sword,” Gervase said. “Then we’ll go back to where we split up. I think the baron has a few men that might want to ask these fellows questions.” And they began finishing up the chase and capture.

Chapter 9

Tuesday: The Rune-Staff

Ragnar Forkbeard was sipping his morning broth—Gunnar had made it from yesterday’s leftover stew—when he heard a commotion by the tavern. It was louder, even, than the wind and the falls. He moved to the front of his booth in time to watch the bailiff and his troopers riding out in a great hurry. Another rider was straggling behind. Ragnar stood there, bowl in one hand and bread in the other. “Ari! Get over to the tavern and find out what’s happening!” Ari hustled off.

“That strange rider was wounded. He had blood on his boot and breeches,” Atli noted.

Ari came back. “Highwaymen wounded a rider on the lake road, near where Thorolf was killed, but he managed to escape them. The bailiff and his men rode to catch the bandits. He left his deputy here to investigate you. He’s buying cider for the merchants to get them to talk.”

“Is he, then? You and Atli visit the tavern and see what people are talking about. Watch over each other like the brothers you are. And—” Ragnar tossed a small pouch to Ari, “—use this silver to buy drinks for merchants yourself.”

“Ah,” Ari said. “Atli and I are rising in the world of merchants. We need to make friends.”

“With that much silver, I wouldn’t be surprised if Tony over at the tavern became your friend.” Olaf Far-traveler grinned. He’d wandered over to see what the fuss was.

“Today will probably be interesting,” Ragnar told Olaf. “Those highwaymen might keep the bailiff busy all day long. Like as not, Otkel and his crew will be here well before the bailiff returns.”

“You think they’re Otkel’s men now?”

“Atli was at the sacred grove much of yesterday. It looked that way to him.”

Olaf looked at the sky, smelled the wind, listened to the leaves rattling. “And we’re going to have a storm, too. We’d better all stay around the booths and the boats, and batten down for weather before it comes.”

“You have the right of it. Remember, we may get foul weather from Otkel and the bailiff, as well as the sky. I hope they decide those highwaymen are the ones who killed Thorolf, but we can’t count on that.”

“Thorolf is even more trouble dead than he was alive,” Olaf said sourly.

“It’s often that way. Snorri Crow gave Thorolf a lot of trouble after
he
was dead.”

“Well, Thorolf shouldn’t have killed him, then.”

“Sometimes a killing is worth the trouble. If I had a good shot at Thorolf, I might have been tempted to kill him myself, even here in the lands of the English. I could go trading to Miklagard with you, if the English made a fuss.”

“We may end up doing that anyway, unless somebody sorts out this Thorolf mess. But Lakesend has the Miklagard trade in bulk iron firmly in their grasp.” Olaf shrugged his shoulders. “You might do better with finished goods in the Algonquin towns along the way. They’re an eager market for kettles, knives, hatchets, and arrowheads. You can get nice furs from them, also beadwork and tobacco.”

“Oh, right, tobacco. As if I don’t get enough smoke when I’m in the smithy!”

“I agree, but some people will pay a lot for the stuff.”

“Agh, the trolls take tobacco! And Otkel too, while they’re at it.” Ragnar spat on the ground. “It’s time to start getting ready for today’s trading. We’ll plan next year’s ventures some other time.” He dipped his bread in broth gone cold, tore a chunk off with his teeth. Then he went to the cookfire and had Gunnar warm the bowl with some fresh broth. He ate the bread, drank the broth, and cautioned Gunnar to make lots of bread so they would have something to eat during the storm. Then he went into his booth to change clothes.

The morning was a strange mix of caution and carelessness. Merchants didn’t have as much on display, because they could see the weather was turning toward a storm. This was doubly true for cloth-merchants and others with goods that could be taken by the wind.

At the tavern, Tony and his wife Maude had finished transferring the food and drink from their supply wagon to Tony’s enclosed wagon. “Get back to Milltown and take care of the inn,” Tony told her. “With the storm that looks to be coming, we’ll need somebody responsible there. Then after the storm, as soon as the ferry looks safe, bring more supplies. Business is always brisk after a storm—everybody’s too busy fixing up their camp to cook.” He gave her a hug, and she drove the wagon back the way they had come.

Everybody was seeing to their shelter. The merchants with stone booths had it easy—all they had to do was make sure their canvas roofs were fastened well and tightly. People with tents and pavilions were setting out extra lines and stakes, adjusting their groundcloths, and making sure there were no potential leaks. Olaf and Ragnar sent their best ship-handlers to make sure their boats were pulled higher on the riverbank, covered with canvas, and staked down.

At the same time, merchants were trading feverishly. They wanted to sell as much as they could. They were out from under the shadow of Thorolf, but his servants had been by the previous afternoon warning them to hold by their deals. Nobody knew what Otkel would be like, but they suspected he would
not
be pleasant. If they sold their goods rapidly, they could leave for home before Otkel got to them.

Ari and Atli had no sooner reached the tavern than they heard Tony say that Otkel had been seen putting up a rune-staff on the Skraeling mound. Atli brought Ragnar the news.

Ragnar’s eyes opened wide. “A rune-staff? Chanting? And this was late in the afternoon of the day Thorolf was killed? If that staff was a scorn-pole, we need to find out who it was cursing!” He stood. “You handle the trading for a while, Knute. I’m going to talk with the deputy. Atli, get back to handing out drinks and listening.” Ragnar and Atli walked off vigorously.

Dirk Cachepol was being an open-handed host at the largest of the tables. There was bread at the table, and a kettle of warm cider. There were a few prosperous merchants with him, but mostly carters, drovers, porters, and the like—the sort that love their gossip and drift toward free drinks and food. Ragnar picked up a cup, filled it from the kettle, and went over to the deputy. “Dirk, might I have a word with you in private?”

Dirk cocked his head at him, and grunted assent. He stood. The two walked a ways toward the river. When they were out of earshot of the rest, Dirk asked, “Going to tell me to back off?”

“Not at all. A merchant investigates his situation. You keep order, and that takes investigation too.”

Dirk nodded.

“I just want to make sure you do a thorough and proper investigation. Killings are serious matters, and I want serious consideration of
all
the suspects. If those rumors of Otkel and the rune-staff are true, you should get that staff to the priests of the sacred grove. They can tell a lot from the runes carved into it. Rune-staves are powerful; Egil Skallagrimsson set one up against King Eirik Bloodaxe of Norway, and it wasn’t that long until Hakon the Good chased Eirik out and took over as king instead.”

Dirk smiled a crooked smile in consideration. “I’ve sent out word I’d like to talk with the Finn who spoke of it. But you make a good argument. You and I should go there together to get the staff.”

Ragnar nodded. “There are highwaymen in that direction. We should take a few strong, honest men with us. It’ll be safer, and any dispute won’t be just your word against mine.”

They were still carrying their cups of cider. They raised them to each other, and drank. “I have to make arrangements at my booth,” Ragnar said. “A lot of the merchants came with guards. See if you can borrow a few. I’ll meet you at the tavern.”

Soon Ragnar was back, riding a horse. He’d put on a steel cap and mail shirt, his bow was on his saddle, a longsword was strapped to his belt, and he carried a small shield in his left hand. He had an extra mail shirt for Dirk. “Best to be ready.”

Dirk shrugged into the mail. “Thanks.”

Soon they were headed down the road to Northlanding, accompanied by four guards. They’d been loaned by a southern spice merchant looking to curry some favor with the baronial officials. Dirk snickered to himself over
that.
Dirk guided them—he was local, he knew the way. Somewhere after the lake road, but before the abbey road, he reined his horse to a stop and pointed away from the river into the brush and trees alongside the road. “The Skraeling mound is that way. We can ride there.”

The horses were reluctant, but the men urged them into the woods. Once they were past the undergrowth at the edge of the trees, the ground cover thinned out. The sun was high enough to give good light, but low enough to give them direction. They rode in single file behind Dirk. Mostly, they followed his hand-signals, because the noise of the wind in the trees was enough to drown their voices.

The land began to rise, and it was softer. There weren’t as many rocks, and the trees were stunted by the sandy soil. As they neared the top of the mound, trees gave way to grass. Near the center of the clearing was a fresh staff planted into the ground. As they came closer, they could see carved and painted runes. The skull of a horse lay on the ground, facing back the way they had come.

The mound was high enough that they could see over the trees in several directions. Wind blew and branches swayed, and it seemed to Ragnar that they were surrounded by green and wave-tossed waters. “This doesn’t look auspicious. We should get to the sacred grove before the storm breaks.” He dismounted and put the skull in a saddlebag, being careful not to touch it with his flesh, and plucked up the staff. He mounted and turned his horse back toward the road. “Let’s travel.”

Ragnar and Dirk left their horses and the guards in the stable of the sacred grove. Gunnvald the high priest, a gaunt old fellow with a silver beard and a gray robe, was at the door to the temple longhouse. Ragnar showed him the staff, and handed him the saddlebag with the horse’s skull. The priest opened the saddlebag, looked the skull over. “This doesn’t seem anything special.” He put it on a table near the entrance.