Secret Murder: Who Shall Judge? (4 page)

“I wonder, also, what happened to Thorolf’s mount. A frightened horse heads for his stall—and this one was frightened enough to throw Thorolf. You surely would have been out searching had the animal come home without the man. The killer may have made his escape on Thorolf’s horse, which could be a very important clue.”

Otkel’s eyes widened. “You’d have to be brave and nimble to catch Storm when he was panicked, let alone ride him—few besides Thorolf could handle him at the best of times. But we haven’t seen Storm since yesterday, so you may be right.”

The bailiff smiled. He was learning a great deal from Otkel, and in the distance he could see his men talking quietly with Thorolf’s men. They would come together to weave the larger picture, after the Northmen had gone. But for now, Otkel was his chief concern.

He took the arrow from his belt. When he unwrapped it, the blood had dried so it could be handled freely. He showed it to Otkel and the other two. “This is the arrow that killed Thorolf. Does anything about it seem familiar?”

Otkel took the arrow, turned it over in his hands, sighted along the shaft, checked the nock and fletching. He examined the head carefully. “Give me that cloth, will you?” he asked the bailiff absently, and used it to clean away the crusted blood.

“This arrowhead was made by Ragnar Forkbeard,” he said. “See, there, that rune? That’s his mark. Ragnar and his men have been sworn foes to us for six years and more. They were the main force behind our outlawry from Surtsheim. They’ve shed our blood before.”

The bailiff thought of one of Ragnar’s men, found dead year before last; and he’d heard of Snorri Crow’s death. He didn’t let it show on his well-schooled face. “You’ve told me many things,” he said to Otkel. “I see no further reason to detain you in your grief. One of my men will come with you, to aid you in whatever ways he can. If you think of anything else I should hear, tell him.”

He motioned over a grizzled old veteran named Rhys. “Go with Otkel. Help him however you can.”
And watch these wild Northmen to make sure they don’t take things into their own hands,
he thought to himself. He knew Rhys would understand without being told.

Otkel and the other Northmen went to Thorolf’s body. The sun was high now, and the carvings on the wagon were a brilliant pattern of interlaced highlights and shadow. The trees and bushes were the vivid green of spring, and all of the Northmen were dressed very handsomely. They seemed more a tapestry picture than ordinary life.

Four of the men lifted the rounded body of the wagon off its undercarriage, and placed it beside Thorolf. It was lined with a cushion of furs and rich cloth. They laid him down on that cushion. There was some trouble over his legs, which were beginning to stiffen. They placed his head upon a pillow, and covered him with a blanket of deepest red.

Otkel straightened the body’s head, combed its hair, neatened its mustache. “Come, Thorolf,” he said quietly. “It’s time for your last journey.” He and three others lifted the wagon and its load, carried it over, and snugged it into place between the wheels. Each took a braided rope of red leather, and tied his corner of the wagon-bed to the carved heads at the ends of the frame. Then they set Thorolf’s polearm, straight up, into a socket at the side.

A Northman mounted one of the wagon’s team horses. The others were ready to ride escort. The crowd moved back to give them clear passage. Suddenly a look of surprise crossed Otkel’s face, as if something unseen by others rose up before him. He signaled the Northmen to stop, then dismounted and returned to the wagon.

He bowed his head. His fist traced a pattern in the air before his chest: across, then down. “Pardon the intrusion, Thorolf, but this is important.” He lifted the blanket, examined the corpse.

His face whitened, then flushed. “To be killed by an enemy is one thing—but to be killed by a thief....” His voice was low, but forceful; the other Northmen heard, but none of the crowd did. He neatly covered Thorolf again, tucked the blanket in, then turned and walked to the bailiff.

“Matters have changed,” he said without preamble. “Thorolf may have been robbed after all—he had a pouch with a great deal of silver when he left us, and it’s nowhere on his body. I would look for enemies from the north—but a thief may be from anywhere.”

Gervase Rotour was silent for a moment, then spoke. “Your powers of observation do you great credit, Otkel. But he had his pouch. I have taken it as King’s Evidence that he was not robbed, alongside the arrow that killed him.”

Otkel’s silence was longer than the bailiff’s. Finally: “Your king is welcome to his evidence, for as long as he needs it. There will be enough silver for Thorolf’s pyre in any case.” He turned abruptly and walked back to his horse. The wagon began to roll, six Northmen preceding it and six behind. It looked for all the world like a noble travelling in state with a band of retainers. Rhys followed at a discreet distance.

Gervase shook his head, and spoke to Dirk. “We’re going to have trouble from Otkel. We’d best find the killer while the Northmen are busy with Thorolf’s funeral. Otherwise, who knows what they’ll do?

“Gather our men. We can talk on the way to the fairgrounds.”

Gervase went to Benedict’s little group. “Many thanks for your help in this matter, and for staying in case you were needed. Now it’s time for me to investigate elsewhere. You are free to go about your business.”

Hob and Joseph began untying the pack horses, while Father Hugh tried to untangle his donkey’s reins from the bushes they had somehow gotten woven in with. “Bless your mission, bailiff,” he said over his shoulder. “There’s a murderer among us, and suspicion eats at the soul. Catch him. Set our minds at peace.”

The reins came loose. The donkey, sensing he was free, brayed and dashed away. Father Hugh went after him, habit flapping against his legs, crashing through the bushes. He caught a rein, then went tumbling on the ground in the process. He rose, dusted himself off, prayed vigorously to Saint Jerome for patience, and began admonishing the animal. The crowd, its tension released, laughed immoderately.

Benedict pulled his group together, Hugh spoke firmly, and the bailiff and his men rode off toward the fairgrounds. The crowd began to mill about. Some clustered where Thorolf’s corpse had lain. Others left.

All day long people stopped, drawn by the gawpers already there, were told what had happened, and in the process themselves drew more curious travelers. They, in turn, explained to the newcomers. The site was not deserted until the stars began to show, and some of the tales told by evening were truly strange and wonderful.

Chapter 3

Monday:  Matilda and the Tavern

Gervase and his men rode slowly, talking. Horseback can be a very private place, and they had much to say among themselves.

The bailiff spoke first. “We have to find Thorolf’s horse, and Otkel said he thought Thorolf stayed at the fair to meet a woman. Finding her is, like as not, our most important job.”

“That won’t be hard,” one of the troopers said. “It’s Matilda, the widow who runs the stables in Milltown. She has horses to rent at the fairgrounds.”

Gervase raised his brows. “Otkel didn’t know that.”

“Otkel may be a fine lieutenant—but would you tell him the secrets of your soul? Leif knew of Matilda. He’s the stocky Northman with the red beard and crucifix. The others seemed shaken from loss of leadership in a foreign land. Leif, I think, mourned a friend.”

“It must have been lonesome, being Thorolf,” the bailiff mused.

“Leif seemed to think that, too. But Matilda was always pleasant to Thorolf. She’s from Milltown, so he didn’t see her nearly as often as he spoke of her. They met again yesterday, and Leif says Thorolf was absent-minded afterwards. He sent the rest of them back to Northlanding like a man who’s made up his mind.”

“We’ll leave our horses at Matilda’s paddock,” Gervase said decisively. “I want to see her.

“Now, we must plan the rest of our investigations. Matilda might solve this for us—but when have we ever been fortunate enough to have the answer drop into our laps like that, hm?”

“Last fall. Remember we stopped at the Dancing Bear to ask if travelers had seen the robber we were after? And there he was, drunk as a monk in the corner.” Dirk had a weakness for interrupting.

“Hm. Thank you, Dirk. That’s once, men, once in the last year. The rest, we had to work for.” The bailiff paused a moment. “And Dirk has told me how we will go about it.

“We can speak directly with Matilda—but Ragnar is a formidable man, and has a large crew. We’ll want more information before we discuss Otkel’s accusation with him. Ragnar knows Dirk and myself, so the rest of you will have to investigate him.

“Dirk and I will be at the tavern. You’ll know where to find us, and taverns are filled with active tongues. We should pass the time profitably.”

Planks echoed as their horses crossed a small wooden bridge and came onto the fairgrounds proper. They turned to the left, and rode toward Matilda’s paddock.

The fair covered the meadow like Joseph’s coat come to life. Merchants, porters, locals, beggarmen dressed in clothes of many hues, lands, conditions, and estates mingled in harmonious disputation. A juggler held a small crowd spellbound, and children clustered about an old storyteller. A sweetmonger with pots of honey and cakes of maple sugar was bargaining vigorously with the Master of the local bakers’ guild as they passed his booth. The clangor of an anvil resounded.

Somewhere, Gervase knew, thieves were waiting for opportunity. And perhaps one person in all this multitude was a murderer.

Patches of brightness and color before them clarified into bolts of cloth, spread out on a pattern of ropes surrounding a tent. A merchant, his clothes an advertisement for his wares, stood among them gesticulating with a stooped little tailor. Beside him was a woman selling needles and bright threads for embroidery to a woman who looked to be local.

They rounded the clothseller’s display, and the paddock was before them. A split-rail fence enclosed an area of beaten grass, holding perhaps a dozen horses and capable of holding thrice that. A thatched roof covered several box stalls and a small shed at the rear. In the shade of the roof, a woman sat on an overturned bucket, leaning sideways against a stall.

When she saw them approaching, she rose and came gracefully forward. She was slim above the waist, with broad hips. Her blue overdress was girdled up, showing a white underdress. Auburn hair cascaded beneath her white kerchief. Her face was pleasant, but her eyes were very tired.

“How may I be of service, good gentles?” she said in a soft voice.

“Our horses must be taken care of,” Gervase answered. “Fed and watered, but left saddled in case we need them suddenly.” He dismounted, as did his men.

She took the reins of Gervase’s horse, touched her hand to its cheek, spoke quietly in its ear. She opened the gate, and the big bay walked docilely into the paddock.

The bailiff smiled in approval.
This woman is good with horses!
She led the bay to a trough of water, and a manger filled with hay. The other horses, clearly jealous, crowded into the strange enclosure with very little prodding.

Dirk grasped the bailiff’s sleeve, and whispered in his ear. “That’s Thorolf’s horse, Storm, in the center stall.” The aroma of garlic sausage filled Gervase’s nostrils.

Matilda returned, closing the gate behind her. “Care of seven horses would be threepence ha’penny the day,” she said, “and since you may be leaving suddenly, I’ll have to ask for payment in advance.”

Gervase opened his pouch for the coins, and gave them to Matilda.
For such a small hand, how strong it is,
he thought. “I’m looking for a special horse, and I believe you may have just the one.” He gestured toward the center stall, and Storm.

“That horse is lame,” Matilda said. Her eyes, which had been tired, glistened. Gervase realized she had begun to cry.

The bailiff took her gently by the shoulder and led her to a pile of hay, sat her down, made her comfortable. She turned her head to lean on the fencerail; and though Gervase could not see her face, he could tell by her breathing that she still wept silently.

He gestured to his men. One went to examine Storm, while others dispersed into the crowd that was beginning to form. Word of Thorolf’s death was everywhere—and here was the bailiff with a weeping woman. Tongues were sure to wag: troopers in the crowd could hear a lot, and help control things, if need be.

At last Matilda gulped, and her breathing became regular. She straightened up, and wiped her eyes with the tails of her kerchief. She was alone with the bailiff, with a circle of watchers at perhaps a rod’s distance.

“I’m sorry, my lord. I’ve known since last evening that I was in terrible trouble. Today I learned the trouble was different than I thought. When you spoke to me, you caught me off-balance.”

Gervase smiled sympathetically, and kept his silence. He was an exceptionally talented listener, Matilda was talking, and there would be time for questions later.

“My husband, Gib, died of a fever six years ago. That was about the time Thorolf and his men came to Northlanding. I kept up the stables and paddock – I already was doing most of the horse-training, it’s something women are good at.

“Thorolf sometimes rented horses from me, in the early days before he’d settled on his course of business. We got along well, but we were both too filled with our sorrows—me a widow, he an exile—for it to go beyond that.

“And then he began insisting that merchants take him as a trading partner. A number of people were badly beaten. He’s been able to get along with quiet threats ever since.”

She was silent a moment. “I guess that’s all over now, isn’t it?

“I didn’t approve, but he would visit the stables now and then, and I would be pleasant. He wanted to trade in goods that could be kept in his warehouses—not horses—so he was no danger to me as long as I didn’t anger him. Politeness works with horses, and it seemed to work with Thorolf. I did not realize he’d taken it for something more.