Free Secret Murder: Who Shall Judge? by Ellen Kuhfeld

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!”
    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