Secret Murder: Who Shall Judge? (20 page)

The sun was rising toward noon by the time Ari and Atli made it to the sacred grove. They were riding Benedict’s horses still, leading a pack-horse with a brewing keg on its back, and other goods. They sacrificed blood to Odin’s oak. Leif was standing there, trading glares back and forth with the priest.

At the top of the hill, Gunnar’s body lay in state in the body of the wagon, set on a frame made for that purpose. His hands were folded over his sword, which still had Otkel’s blood on it. Knute stood beside his friend, his face closed and one hand on the rim of the wagon frame. The brothers dismounted, and began to unpack the horse. Ragnar and the other men were stripped to their waists, carrying wood and building a pyre on the burnt-bare ground at the summit.

“What did you bring?” Ragnar asked.

“First, we got the spoon he used to fling boiling stew at the trooper.”

Ragnar nodded.

“Then we talked with Olaf and his men, and decided that of all the things Gunnar did, we most loved the ale he brewed. We brought his brewing-keg, and we and Olaf gathered up all the drinking bowls and horns and cups. The keg still has the last ale of his brewing.”

Ragnar pounded his fist into his palm. “Excellent! We can use that ale for the bragarfull oath!”

“And of course we have his bedroll, and the other things he carried around with him.”

“Did you get a good cooking-knife?”

“We got Gunnar’s knife.”

“That’s good, but it’s not enough. If they have any sense at all in Valhalla, Gunnar will be as much a cook as a warrior.” Ragnar turned to Knute. “Take one of these horses, go back to the booth, and get the finest cooking-knife in our whole inventory. We can put them both on the pyre.”

Then Ragnar turned to the brothers. “I thought I saw Leif down there talking to the priest.”

“It was more like arguing. Leif wants to come to the funeral, and the priest was refusing.”

Ragnar shrugged. “Leif is a follower of the White Christ, and High Priest Gunnvald is a crusty old fellow. They don’t get on that well. Gunnvald knows Leif was of Thorolf’s faction. Maybe he doesn’t want Leif to disturb us. But I’ve always thought Leif was the most decent of Thorolf’s men.”

Ragnar stroked his beard for a moment. The sun gleamed off his forehead, sweaty from working on the pyre. A droplet trembled on the tip of one of the forks of his beard, then fell. “Ari, go down there and tell the priest we want Leif at the funeral as a guest, and it won’t cause any trouble. Then take two horses. You and Leif go to the abbey. Abbess Margaret and Father Hugh won’t want to be at this ceremony. Their god is funny that way. But maybe John Freemantle would.”

Ragnar thought a moment more. “Atli, borrow a horse from the Temple. Go into town and tell our friends Gunnar’s pyre will be lit at sundown. And we should have a feast.”

Atli agreed. “But where? If we have the feast in town, it’ll be hard on our friends at the fairgrounds. If we have it at the fairgrounds, it’ll inconvenience our friends from town. Either way, people will have to travel home long after sunset.”

Ragnar nodded. “Perhaps we could have the feast here,
before
the funeral. It’s not the custom, but this is
Gunnar’s
funeral.
He
wouldn’t mind if we put the food first, and everybody will have less traveling to do. Let’s go see how High Priest Gunnvald feels.”

The high priest agreed. The templefolk were used to funeral feasts—Northmen had them all the time. This one would be, at most, mildly unusual.

The Temple servants hauled out trestle tables for the food, and brought a roasting-spit for the fire circle. They even sold Ragnar one of their goats, and when Knute returned from the fair with the knife for Gunnar’s pyre, he set right to work on the roasting. He used the knife he’d brought for the pyre—after all, the feast was in celebration of Gunnar. Atli was talking to Tony and Benedict, as well as spreading the news.

Benedict sent orders to the cooks at his warehouse: bake bread. Make treats. Bring butter. Get them to the Northmen’s grove as rapidly as possible. They sent for Tony, who hitched up a horse to his wagon and brought his stores of ale, sausage, and cheese, plus all his bowls and mugs. By late afternoon, there was a substantial array of food set forth on the tables. The goat would keep roasting until it was needed.

People began to arrive. Benedict’s servants had come with the bread, and were helping arrange the food. Tony was setting out bowls and mugs at the end of the tables near his wagon. Ragnar and the other men had finished stacking the pyre, and trailed down to get some food and drink after the work they’d done without a noon meal.

Dirk Cachepol arrived with—wonder of wonders—a clean-shaven face. He grasped Ragnar’s shoulder. “I’m sorry it came to this. You and Gunnar and your men saved us a lot of grief. If you hadn’t been there, this might be one of us.”

“I’m not glad it was Gunnar, but there were omens. And once the Norns set their mind on a man’s fate, it will happen that way. The High Gods themselves are at the mercy of Fate.” Ragnar clasped Dirk’s hand.

“The bailiff wanted to be here, but he’s busy asking Otkel questions.”

“That’s useful. We’ll be sending Gunnar off to Valhalla with our praises winging alongside. When Otkel dies, I want a complete list of his sins to travel with him.” The two parted, as Ragnar saw Ari and Leif returning from the abbey with John Freemantle. They rode up, and dismounted. One of the Temple servants took their horses.

John Freemantle came up to Ragnar. “And just yesterday, Gunnar was alive and arguing with the gamekeeper. Is this what you were thinking about when you said their conversation sounded like trouble?”

Ragnar smiled bleakly. “I knew something bad was going to happen. I just didn’t know what it would be, nor who it would happen to.”

“No poem? Gunnar’s death has you really out of sorts.”

“I’m saving the poem for the funeral oration.”

About then Matilda arrived, with riders on all her horses. Most of the riders were merchants from the fairgrounds, but there were servants and guards along also.

The feast began to take on a life of its own. Everybody crowded around the food and drink. Knute began carving off slices of goat, and putting them on platters for the table. Most people felt comforted by huddling into their own little groups.

Ragnar wandered from group to group, welcoming people, shaking hands, and listening carefully to the stories people told about Gunnar.

One group had memories from the fair of two years ago. “Do you remember that rain? Not as bad as the storm the other day, but it never let up.” There were nods and murmurs of agreement.

“I’d just come down from Lakesend to do some trading. I was new to these fairs, but a lot of folk suffered right along with me. I hadn’t saved enough dry wood, and water got under the edge of my tent to soak the wood I
had
put away. It was almost impossible to cook without dry wood. And I was getting tired of parched corn and jerky.

“Gunnar, bless him, had stored away plenty of wood. He put up a fly to keep the rain off his cook-circle, started a fire, and made an enormous cauldron of stew. He fed everybody that came to him. Just that one warm meal saved the whole fair for us. We had the strength to pull everything together, when the rain finally stopped.”

“I remember that,” one of the other fellows smiled. “Chicken stew it was, with a lot of vegetables. Not fancy, but he’d spiced and salted it just right.”

“I always have a warm spot in my heart for a man that feeds me,” a third added. “He didn’t have to, we weren’t at his steading.”

Ragnar marked that down in his mind, and kept moving about.

“I was up by the Little Sea once, and stopped by that inn Gunnar and his parents keep. Never had such good food.”

“Remember the time he killed that bear with his axe?”

“When we were carrying Gunnar home from the battle, after Otkel hit him from behind, he couldn’t even stand up. But from his litter, he was scolding our cook over the seasonings.”

“I knew him when he was young, and.…”

As the day turned toward evening, Ragnar’s men, and Olaf’s, went up the burning-hill to the pyre. Carefully they lifted Gunnar’s body, set him high on the prepared wood. They neatened his body and his hair, and adjusted the placement of his sword. Then they stood in a circle around the pyre, guards of honor for a well-liked member of their band.

The rest of the people, Gunnar’s friends but not of his band, followed after.

Ragnar and Olaf went up the temple hill. With proper ceremony, each took a torch and lit it at the sacred fire. They paced slowly down the temple hill, and up the burning hill, bearing their torches. The sun, almost at the horizon, cast long shadows.

They approached the head of the pyre. Olaf handed his torch to Ragnar, and approached Gunnar’s body. He took a small lantern from beneath his cloak, held it high. He turned to address the crowd.

“Gunnar never slept. All night long he stayed awake, watching over us, and this is the lantern he used. This lantern should go with Gunnar, rather than staying behind for some lesser use.” Olaf lifted the lantern, set it by Gunnar’s side, and returned to Ragnar. He took back his torch.

The man to Olaf’s left stood forth, carrying his bowl. “Gunnar fed me, and gave me the best of ale. The memories I share with this bowl should not be diminished by food and drink from some other cook.” He placed it by Gunnar’s side.

The man to
his
left stood forth. He raised high a drinking horn. “In times of sorrow and times of joy, Gunnar’s ale was a boon companion. From this day forth, no other drink shall touch this horn, save it be Odin’s mead.” He set the horn by Gunnar.

And so it went around the circle, each man praising Gunnar and putting his vessel by Gunnar’s side. Finally the time to speak came around to Ragnar. He handed his torch to Olaf, went to the pyre by Gunnar’s head. “Gunnar’s sword is with him, covered with the blood of the man that slew him. He need take no other weapon with him to Valhalla. But in celebration of his life, here is his cooking-knife, and another fine knife as well.” He put them by Gunnar, one at each side. Then he brought forth his drinking bowl, and put it there also. Finally he took a large Thor’s Hammer of silver from around his neck, and placed it on Gunnar’s chest. “Gunnar was a great companion. We’ll not see his like again. Let this hammer guide him safely to the halls of Thor, the god whom he loved above all others.”

Then Ragnar returned to his place beside Olaf.

The sun touched the earth. From the temple, the lur-horns sounded. Each of the men knelt down, and took up the torch lying at his feet. Ragnar and Olaf went around the circle sunwise, lighting each torch. Back at the head of the pyre, Ragnar and Olaf thrust their torches into the woodpile. “Now we send you to Thor,” they said in a strong voice. The other men thrust forth their torches. “Now we send you to Thor.”

The pyre, of oak and ash and elm, began to burn. Smoke and flames rose high, drifting to the west where the sun had disappeared. As daylight faded, shadows of the people in attendance were cast by the light of the fire. Everything was silent, save for the pops and crackling of the firewood. Their faces grew hot from the blaze, and everybody stepped back several paces.

Nothing lasts forever. The night grew darker as the fire burned low. Ragnar and Olaf turned to a tripod behind them, lifted a huge cup studded with garnets, and held it high. “The cup of Bragi, filled with the last ale brewed by Gunnar. Let us drink of the funeral ale, in memory of our friend and in praise of the god to whom he has gone.” Ragnar lifted it to his mouth, drank deeply, then passed it to Olaf, who did the same.

Olaf began to carry the cup around the circle of men. Twice, he had to refill it from Gunnar’s brew-keg. Finally it returned to Ragnar, who took it up and returned it to the tripod. He strode forth, faced the crowd.

“We have drunk the bragarfull ale. Now approaches the time to swear our oath.”

“Gunnar was our friend and comrade. He traveled with us, took care of us, and because he never slept, he watched over us.”

“Today, Otkel killed Gunnar. At the same time, Gunnar removed Otkel’s hand, and gave him over to the bailiff. The fates of Gunnar and Otkel have been linked for six years, ever since the battle in which Otkel hit Gunnar from behind. Now they have been each others’ doom.”

“There have been omens, starting the night of the storm, when Gunnar saw the ravens of death circling over us. Before dawn today, Gunnar told me he saw a Valkyrie, who told him ‘today would pay for all.’”

Cattle die, kinsmen die.

Someday we ourselves must die.

I know one thing that never dies:

The lasting fame of the storied dead.

“All men are mortal. Better to die young and healthy, in bold venture or battle, than to live into feeble age. And so Gunnar did. The rest of us were searching for Otkel in the warehouse and the stables, but Gunnar saw motion in another outbuilding. He went, alone, to check. Otkel thrust forth his spear and took Gunnar in the belly—but at the same time, Gunnar took Otkel’s hand and spear with his sword. And then he returned to Ari and myself.

“Is Otkel in there?” we asked. And here Ari joined with Ragnar in chanting Gunnar’s last words. As they ended with “… I think he’s a bit short-handed right now” there was a murmur of praise from all the Northmen present.

“And so the time is here for the bragarfull oath. This is the oath I swear. None are truly dead, so long as their stories live. I will make and tell the saga of Gunnar the Unsleeping and Otkel the Short-handed. If you join in the oath, you can help by telling me your stories of Gunnar, and by telling those stories yourself.”

Ragnar spread his arms wide, then made the sign of Thor’s Hammer. He turned to the pyre. “We commend you to Thor, our friend, but we will keep your memory alive here in Midgard.”

“And so we swear,” all of Ragnar’s and Olaf’s men agreed in chorus.

“So be it,” Ragnar and Olaf said. “And now our duty here is done.” They turned to the bragarfull cup, and motioned to Gunnar’s assorted friends. “Come, join us. Drink the ale, swear the oath, and keep Gunnar’s memory.” And most of the people there did just that, though some who hadn’t known Gunnar well held back.