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so I let him in through the gate and unsaddled him.”
    The woman holding the cloth merchant’s arm said “Matilda fell over our tent ropes, about the same time my husband was caring for the horse. I got her up, and tucked her away in her shed.”
    A babble of voices broke out, confirming Matilda’s story in every detail and embroidering upon Thorolf’s discomfiture. When there was no more information to be gleaned, Gervase and his men withdrew—this time to the center of the paddock, farther from listening ears.
    “Men,” Gervase began, “we’ve learned more than we expected. And right now, it doesn’t seem to be worth much. We’ll have to check the tavern to see if Matilda was there, but I expect she was. That leaves Ragnar Forkbeard as our chief suspect—at least Otkel seems to think so. He should know Thorolf’s enemies.
    “Dirk and I will go to the tavern. The rest of you, poke about and see what you can learn of Ragnar’s activities. Try not to arouse his suspicions.” Three troopers scattered, while the fourth remained with Matilda.
    The tavern had a canvas fly, keeping sun and rain from a patch of ground the size of a large room. Rushes were strewn on the ground, and three-legged stools scattered about. The tables were sections cut from a very large tree, and smaller tree-chunks supplemented the stools. At one end an enclosed wagon was drawn up, with casks protruding from the rear and sausages and cheese hanging from the roof. Dozens of wooden mugs hung from pegs around the frame, and dimly within, bottles and loaves could be seen. The tavernkeeper was near the wagon. His wife and daughter moved about, delivering full mugs and collecting empty ones.
    Gervase gave the tavernkeeper a silver penny. “A pint of bitter, bread and cheese. What will you have, Dirk?”
    Dirk scratched absently at his stubble as he thought. “Ale, and sausage. Garlic sausage.”
    The tavernkeeper was named Tony, a tall, slat-thin man wearing shirt and breeches. Tucked into the band of his well-used apron was a large knife. He drew it, sliced cheese and sausage from his collection. He set mugs below the casks and pulled on the spigots: two streams arched forth, one dark and one golden. Gervase and Dirk took their mugs and drank in unison, sighed appreciation in unison.
    “Ah,” the bailiff said, wiping his mustache. “Murders are thirsty work.”
    “Tell me, Tony,” he continued. “People talk at taverns. What have they been talking about?”
    The tavernkeeper looked thoughtful, and drew himself a half-pint. “Well, most of yesterday people were talking of Thorolf’s face-off with Ragnar. But a little before sundown, everybody was laughing over Matilda using a whip on him. I must say, the laughter seemed sincere—but it had a nervous edge.”
    “Matilda says she came here, but can’t remember anything afterwards.”
    “Yea, that’s the truth of it. She arrived very soon after the story did. Normally, she likes her pint of stout—but last night she was drinking ice wine. She definitely was in a hurry to get drunk. And half the merchants in the place were lined up to pay for her next drink. Maude tried to help her back to the paddock, but Matilda said she didn’t need help. I’m surprised she was able to walk that far.”
    “She didn’t make it all the way,” the bailiff said. Tony nodded.
    Two men, drovers by the look of them, came up to the wagon. “Ale!” they said. The tavernkeeper was silent a moment as he drew it.
    “I didn’t realize quite how much the merchants disliked Thorolf,” Tony continued as the drovers seated themselves where they could look out over the crowd. “There was grumbling, especially when they were in their cups. But last night, they were toasting his downfall.”
    “Who were the merchants doing the toasting? Who was buying the drinks?”
    “Mostly the toasts came from local merchants, and traders from the North. The carters were buying a lot of the drinks, but I think that