Secret Murder: Who Shall Judge? (8 page)

James laughed. “I suffered for my smell, just as you suffered for yours. I was coming down with a rash, so I went to the abbey and begged some of Abbess Margaret’s herb unguent from Father Hugh.”

“Well, it’s a welcome change,” Ragnar said. “One of those troopers was wearing the worst bear-grease burn ointment I’ve ever smelled. He was skulking about earlier, and Gunnar scalded him with hot stew.”

“Stew? That’s an unlikely weapon.”

“Oh, it’s harmless when used properly. In fact, it should be ready by now. Would you care to join us in our meal? Then we can get back to the serious business of ironmongering.” The two walked together toward the cauldron behind the booths. There was a mouth-watering aroma of meat and sage and onions.

Gunnar handed them bowls, bread and ale. A place was made for them. They sat, and ate, among peace and quiet conversation.

Two others were walking: Gervase Rotour and Dirk Cachepol. They sought solitude on the river road upstream of the fairgrounds.

“I don’t like it, Dirk. Ragnar had excellent answers to all of our questions. And we’ll have to consider Otkel a suspect, if what Ragnar said is true. I have little doubt it is. Ragnar has a good reputation for truth-telling. But there’s something nagging me.”

“He’s a merchant, m’lud,” Dirk said. “Makes him confident as the only rooster in the henyard when it comes to crossing tongues. You don’t like confident suspects.”

“And an honest merchant at that, which makes him doubly dangerous. We listened to what he said, which made perfect sense. And I’m sure it was the absolute truth. But was it the whole truth?”

“M’lud?”

“You know, he cleared all his men. But he never once said that
he himself
didn’t kill Thorolf.”

“You never asked him.”

Chapter 6

Monday: Readying the Pyre

Otkel mounted up and waved his Northmen—by Odin,
his
Northmen—forward. The man riding the team-horse clucked and slapped it gently, and the ceremonial wagon lurched into motion.

Otkel was in the trailing group of horsemen. He cantered forward, conscious that people were watching, to the head of the band.

The bailiff had taken Thorolf’s pouch of silver, and Otkel was certain it would never return. And now there was this trooper trailing along.
‘Help him however you can’, HA! A Welshman? The fellow had to be a spy.

Otkel fumed, while his face remained solemn. The wagon creaked behind him, and there was the comforting presence of his men. The morning sun was well up and the day was warming. It would have been cooler without his bear-fur cape. He began to sweat, but he kept the cape. Thorolf deserved a well-dressed escort for his last ride here on Midgard.

There were people on the road who gave them a respectful right-of-way. Otkel’s vision was keen. In the distance he could see oncomers as they sighted his band. They would scratch their heads and gesture to one another. Then somebody – there always seemed to be somebody—would come up. They would talk together, and point. Their eyes would widen, and they would move to the far side of the road.

Sometimes there would be a flash of smile, vanishing almost before it began. Otkel marked those faces in his memory.

There was a side road some distance beyond the abbey road, less used than this merchants’ thoroughfare, leading down an arched avenue of elms. The band of Northmen turned down it. Immediately the sound of the horses’ hooves and the rattle of the wagon-wheels quieted. The main road had been beaten down, the dirt washed away by the rains, the rocks left behind. Here, the grasses still held sway and the rocks were few.

They traveled in silence below the elms. It was like riding the length of an enormous longhouse. Rays of light lanced through leaf-windows into the dimness beneath. Slowly the forest changed. Graceful elm gave way to gnarly oak, and the land began to rise. Ahead, through the trees, was a handsome hall shining in the sun.

The road came into a large clearing with two hills. One hill had a building at its top, three times as tall as a man and covered with rounded shingles so it seemed scaled like an ancient dragon. It was small for a temple, but well-built. Near the temple was a great oak with golden torcs and silver arm-rings, bronze helmets and other sacrifices hanging from its branches. Much of the clearing around and beyond this hill was devoted to a temple farm and its buildings, all handsomely painted.

The other hill was bare, with a circle of burnt stones at its summit.

When they left the shelter of the trees, they saw tall wooden poles set into the ground close beside the trail. Some were plain and some carved with faces. Otkel and the others dismounted there, and gave their horses into the care of a temple servant. Leif stayed with the wagon as the others went forward. His left hand held the reins of the lead horse, while his right hand wrapped about his crucifix. His face was still, and closed.

There were two pillars side by side, larger than the others. One bore a face with an eyepatch, the other the image of a bearded man with a hammer held beneath his chin. Otkel prostrated himself before the first. “Allfather Odin, I come bearing the body of your servant Thorolf, killed by shameful hidden ambush. Tonight there will be a mighty pyre, and many sacrifices; tomorrow, vengeance. We pray you: smile upon the pyre, smile upon the vengeance.”

The Northmen lay in silence before the pillars, some praying to Odin and others to Thor. A breeze sprang up, rattling in the oak-leaves. A shadow flickered over them, and there was the sound of wings. Otkel looked up.

One post, apart from the others, had a face with lines stitched across its mouth: Loki, a very treacherous god. A raven had landed on it, and was regarding them. As the Northmen began to move, to look toward it, it cawed loudly and took off, slow wingbeats swirling the air. It flew to the edge of the wood and joined a flock of ravens perched in a tree.

Otkel did not like the looks of that. Ravens often carried messages.
The bird of Odin, landing on the image of Loki? It doesn’t seem likely I’ll be able to rely on the favor of the gods in this matter.

But he stood, and spoke. “We’ve been given an omen, men, and it seems very clear to me. The bird of Odin, battle-crow, bird of death, landed by us then took off. Death is with us for just a short while, and Odin’s favor will be fleeting also.

“Then the bird of death joined with a flock—and who among you can tell me which one it was? Soon the killer will leave, join with others of his kind. Then we’ll never be able to pick him out.

“The raven landed on Loki’s post: Loki, god of craft and slyness. That means we’ll need craftiness.

“Put them together. The killer is here at the fair, and we have to find him before everybody leaves at the end of the week. If we’re clever, Odin will smile upon our vengeance—but we must act rapidly.”

They stood, brushing twigs and leaf-fragments from their fine clothing. Otkel strode decisively over to the wagon, followed by the others. Leif quickly crossed himself, and stood alertly with the reins. They continued down the path on foot, Otkel leading, Leif guiding the horses, and the others forming a guard of honor about the wagon.

The path led past the temple and the sacrificial oak, on to the knoll topped with stones. As they approached the oak, a gray-robed priest carrying a rune-carved spear stepped forth to block their way. He grounded the butt of the spear firmly on the bare earth of the path. “Who walks the ways of the dead?” he asked.

“Thorolf Pike, and his men,” Otkel replied.

“Thorolf is dead, that I can see. Where are your wounds, to give you the right to walk here?”

Otkel stepped forward, and bared his arm. The priest slashed it with his shining spear-head. A thin line of red droplets sprang out on Otkel’s forearm, and a rivulet of blood formed. Otkel held his arm out, let the blood fall on the oak-roots, then stepped past the priest and stood by the side of the path. The next man came to the priest, and gave him his arm.

Leif was last, and he didn’t present his arm to the priest. “I am a Christian now, and must not shed blood sacrifice to Odin.”

“Then you cannot pass.” The priest spread his feet and planted the butt of his spear firmly on the ground. “We have spoken of this before, Leif.” They stood confronting one another. The priest was tall and gaunt. His silver beard, shot with a memory of red, gleamed in the sun. Leif was short and stocky. Gray was just beginning to show in his hair.

“Thorolf was my friend,” Leif said, “and Odin is Lord of poetry and mead as well as of battles and death.” Leif took a mead-skin from his belt and drank, then poured a shining golden stream of honey-wine onto the tree’s roots. “There is a poem in the holy book of Ecclesiastes:

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die;

A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal;

A time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh;

A time to mourn, and a time to dance.

“Thorolf was my friend,” Leif said once more. “His time to die came. Now it is time to mourn, and perhaps it shall soon be time to kill. Your god and mine can agree on these things.”

Shaking his head, the priest nevertheless stepped to one side. Leif joined the others. The path led down, then up again. Soon they were at the top of the burning-knoll. Wind blew gently about them, their cloaks of red and brown and blue flowing at their backs, the bear fur of Otkel’s cloak rippling in the breeze. All around they could see treetops, and in the distance the walls and roofs of Northlanding.

At the foot of the hill were storage sheds of oak and ash and elm, stocked with dried wood for the pyre. It would be their last act as Thorolf’s men to pile that wood for him, place him upon it, and set it alight. Then they would drink the funeral cup as the flames set Thorolf’s spirit free.

They looked at the woodsheds below, and the bare hilltop; at the hill, and at each others’ finery. They looked at their own clothing. Ceremony was over for a while, and it was time to haul wood. In their best tunics.

“Leif, you and Hermund and I will go back to Northlanding to get grave-goods for the pyre.” Otkel swung his hand to indicate the rest of the men. “You build the pyre, and....”

“Just a moment there, Otkel,” one of the men said. He was well-muscled, with battle scars and somewhat of a reputation as a berserk. “How come you always have other duties when there’s heavy work to be done? Where were you last night, when the rest of us came back from a full day at the trade fair, and then had to spend hours sorting merchandise, hauling goods, and supervising the other workers? Where were you last week, when we were getting things ready for the fair?

“For that matter, you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself ordering us around. We’re free men, not thralls—we
choose
our leader. And we haven’t chosen you, yet.”

Otkel’s mind dropped into a frozen calm, cold as the northern winter so recently past. He knew the men didn’t especially like him, but they respected his cleverness. A challenge was bound to come. Handle it right, he’d be leader. Handle it wrong, an exile twice over. Now it was time.

He looked at the berserk before him. “People are very cautious around you, Starkad. You’re a dangerous fighter with a dangerous temper. But if it comes down to that, I have as many dead enemies as you do.

“Remember, here in Northlanding we’re not a war-band—we’re traders. An English merchant isn’t going to give you money because he fears you—not year after year. He’s going to call in the bailiff, or hire guards, or worse.

“They give you money because they fear what might happen if they don’t. You make an excellent consequence, standing behind the man doing the bargaining. But do you know how to let a merchant save his pride while giving you what you want? Do you know how to make the hint of violence do more than violence ever could? Do you fully understand what Thorolf and I were doing?

“I would make the threats. You would make the threats believable. Thorolf would restrain us, and the merchants would give the bargain to
him
. I’m going to have enough difficulty holding our deals together, myself. The rest of you would end up cooling your heels in a cell, or dead in an alley, if you tried.

“You, Starkad!” Otkel’s forefinger stabbed toward him. “Back in Surtsheim you were a soldier. Here, you’re a rich soldier. Hrapp! You tended other men’s horses. Here, men make way for you in the streets. And you, Hallbjorn! On the docks of Lakesend you wore rags—here, the finest of linens!”

His eyes swept the men. “Look at you!” he cried. “The handsomest band of Northmen you’re likely to see. Nobody had to give you those clothes for the funeral—you already had them. Thorolf and I did all the negotiating that made us rich. Now that Thorolf’s dead, I’m the only one among us that’s done it.”

He turned, motioned Leif and Hermund to follow him. “Let’s get Thorolf properly burned. We’re going to have our hands full tomorrow, holding together the deals he made, and taking proper vengeance. But first things first.”

He walked down the path. Leif and Hermund followed. For once, Otkel did not look back. He was quivering inside, but there was a melting warmth of satisfaction.
I do think I carried it off,
he thought to himself.

On the hilltop, the remaining Northmen began stripping down to their breeches, getting ready to carry firewood.

Otkel, Leif, and Hermund reclaimed their horses from the temple barn. The bailiff’s man was talking quietly with the stableman in the horse-scented dimness within. The horses’ heads came around and their ears pricked up as their masters entered.

As Otkel took the reins, the trooper headed toward his own horse. Otkel waved him off. “You needn’t come with us. The men here will probably need you more. They’ve got a lot of ritual to get through, and it could be extremely helpful having somebody who’s not involved, to take care of other matters.”