Read Secret Murder: Who Shall Judge? for Free Online

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