“Thunder?” Harun suggested, shrugging. “It is raining, after all. Maybe it's a thunderstorm.”

“Didn’t sound like thunder, that did” grunted Jan.

In Harun’s opinion it most definitely had, but he knew better than try and argue with Jan.

“Y- you don’t think,” stammered Edith, “you don’t think it might be the raiders? Coming into the castle?”

Evidently the men that had destroyed her home had not left her mind for one moment. And who could blame her?

“Could be,” said Jan, and Harun through him an angry look.

“Perhaps,” he suggested, on a sudden inspiration, “it was a ghost. The castle is cursed after all.”

The driver blanched.

Wenzel was about to make a horrified remark, when he saw Harun winking.

“Aye,” he said, catching up. “Aye. Perhaps it was that.”

“Tell me,” said Harun, working on the assumption that any subject was better than that of violent murderers coming after them, “what exactly is this curse about that everybody is so worried about? I never understood it, to be honest. All I have heard up to now are obscure and sinister hints. It might be a good time to tell the story now.”

“No it mightn’t,” growled Jan. “It ain’t now and never would be! The less said about it, the better!”

“But I would like to know, too,” said Edith, obviously distracted from a subject that was to her considerably more sinister. “I know bits of the story, but I never heard told all.”

“Well, if you really want to hear…” Wenzel was not keen on the subject, but it was plain that he enjoyed the interest in his person, particularly interest from Edith. “I’ll tell you. Yes, why not. After all, I’m a man, I’m not afraid of ghosts.” He made an effort to laugh, and it sounded almost natural.

All eyes were upon him now: those of the bondsman mildly interested, those of Harun considerably amused, and those of Edith simply adoring. Concentration obviously on the latter, he began.

“The story begins some 35 years back, the time when preachers from Rome, sent by his Holiness the Pope had come to the Holy Roman Empire to preach the crusade to the noblemen of the land, so as to rid the holy land once and for all from all the heathens-“ He stopped, looked at Harun, and hastily continued: “Well, we all know what the crusade was for. The point is, when they came to Germany and preached to the noblemen, many were caught by their fervent faith, and swore to take the cross and go on the way to Jerusalem. Even the aged Emperor himself, Frederick I of Hohenstaufen, took the cross. But this story is not about Frederick, as you know. Well, as most of you know. This story is about a young squire, who came from outside Frederick's domain, but was a vassal of Frederick’s most loyal liegemen. The squire begged leave from his lord to join the noble pilgrims of the sword, and prove his steadfast faith by finding his way to the city of the Lord.”

Harun rolled his eyes, though discretely. He was quite sure Wenzel did not know half the words he was using, but was reciting the often-heard tales of minstrels. And he was confirmed about a second later, as Wenzel slightly deviated from his style.

“Well, it wouldn’t have worked out like that, because a squire can’t just trot off on his own, can he. Yet the liege lord was gracious and, though the squire was very young still, elevated him to knighthood so that he might go forth and follow the banner of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Wenzel took a deep breath. Not, Harun believed, for dramatic effect, but because what now came was really the most difficult part of the story.

“Now, the squire was a knight. And this knight, whose tale I am to tell, came from this very region, this very castle in fact; his name… was Sir Reimar of Joringard.”

Everybody shuddered at the mere mention of the name. Everybody but Harun. He could tell it was supposed to mean something. But he had never heard the name before. His mind, always prone to pounce on strange phrases, was suddenly attracted by one word in Wenzel’s tale.

“’Was’?” he asked. “You said ‘his name was’. Do you mean he is dead?”

Wenzel shrugged irritably. “God knows… probably he is. Now be quiet, will you? You’ll make me tell the story back to front.”

“Excuse me. Continue, min fadlak.”

“Sir Reimar,” Wenzel continued, “went forth on the crusade with his heart full of hope of performing great deeds that would let rain down honor on the name of his house and glorify our Lord Jesus Christ and other stuff like that. Of the three great armies that were to leave the Christian lands bound for Jerusalem that of the Emperor was the strongest, the bravest, and the quickest on its way, so he accompanied this mighty lord on his way eastward. They journeyed towards the rising sun, through far and foreign lands, past Constantinople and through Anatomya…”

Wenzel stopped, at a discreet clearing of Harun’s throat.

“Aye, what is it?”

“I don't think they went through any country called Anatomya. Do you perhaps mean Anatolia?”

Wenzel gave him a haughty look and continued.

“…through Anatolia, and there the disaster struck. They were waylaid by a heathen force and cowardly attacked from behind. In the struggle with the enemy, the valiant but aged Emperor, wearied by his years, could not defend himself and fell valiantly in the battle to the greater glory of God… What is it now?”

Annoyed, Wenzel turned to Harun, who had cleared his throat again.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Harun apologized, “I’m sure it’s a very good story, and you are telling it marvelously… it’s only that I read once he actually drowned in a river while trying to take a bath. Sorry.”

“Hell, what does it matter how the Emperor died as long as he wasn’t suffocated by a giant green-headed cat? The story isn’t about him, is it?”

“Don’t swear,” the girl said emphatically. “That’s blasphemy, what you are doing, that is.”

“Of course. I’m very sorry,” Wenzel said quickly. “Very and truly sorry, believe me.” The look he gave Harun now was considerably more displeased than the last one. Like 'See what you've done now, you've made me swear!'

Harun rolled his eyes.

“Now, I can perhaps continue,” Wenzel said importantly. “Were was I… aye, the Emperor Frederick was dead. Sir Reimar was devastated. So were most of the loyal followers of this great monarch. They all had dreamed of entering Jerusalem with him in the lead. Many of them despaired of ever fulfilling their oaths to free Jerusalem – but not Sir Reimar. He stayed, and would have attempted to go on all the way alone, although he would have been certain to starve in the dessert. But it did not come to that. For not yet all hope of reaching the Holy Land was lost. One of the dukes of the Emperor's army rallied what men he still had, and made them hold out in the desert. And there, in the midst of their despair, the armies of King Richard the Lionheart, and the King of France caught up with them.”

Wenzel paused, and took a bite of his salmon. To give him his credit as a storyteller, he chewed and swallowed before continuing to talk, which was by no means his normal practice.

“Thus Sir Reimar was saved and could continue his sacred journey. But in the joy about his deliverance from this mortal peril, he foresaw nought of the greater peril which was yet before him, and which would come not from chance or heathen foes, but from within his own heart.”

Another bite of fish. Evidently Wenzel felt he was nearing the most captivating stages of his story, and didn’t mind keeping his audience on tenterhooks. Or he simply needed time to remember. Harun thought his friend was getting better and better in his style, which probably meant nearer to the original. Once he had got going, he was quite good at reciting the stories he must heave heard from minstrels in the village tavern over and over again.

“Many were the battles the valiant crusaders had to fight, and many were the victories of the great kings of England and France. Sir Reimar, despite his youth, fought as it befits a noble knight, and soon earned himself an honored name among the crusaders. They were drawing ever nearer to the city of Jerusalem and the fulfillment of their oath. Then, one fateful day, they reached the city of St Jean d’acre. They took the city, and about 3000 rich heathens fell into their hands. King Richard in his wisdom thought that these might yet serve the cause of the Lord, and sent a message to the King of the heathens, Saladin, that the prisoners might be released to continue their heathen lives, if Saladin would see fit to sent Richard ransom money for every one of them. The heathen king agreed, and began collecting the ransom. But Richard was pressed on his way south, and could not take the prisoners with him. He decided, that it would not be possible to exchange them, and that they would have to meat their fate as enemies of Christ after all.”

Harun stiffened. He believed he could see where this was going.

“And if I may ask, what is the fate of an ‘enemy of Christ’?” he inquired.

Jan grinned nastily, and Wenzel hastened to continue.

“The knights of the king were given orders to um… send the heathens on their way to eternal damnation.”

“Thanks for the information.”

“And, as loyal knights, they came to the king. But there was one among them who did not obey. As Sir Reimar saw the heathen men, women and children standing on the place of execution to meet their fate, he was overcome by a err… perverted sense of compassion.”

Apparently Wenzel was finding it more and more difficult to keep to the original wording of the story as he had heard it. He craned his head so as not to have to look at Harun.

“Perverted?” asked the scribe, raising an eyebrow.

“And the fickle knight, in his… err… folly, turned from his faithful path and… well, he didn’t want to do it. Kill those people, I mean. And the king wasn’t all that pleased.”

Harun's eyebrow went a little higher. “I am sure.”

“Sir Reimar had broken his holy oath, and by this…err.. disgraceful deed, his life and lands were forfeit. The king had all the knights assemble on the marketplace of Acre, still drenched by the blood of the heathens which had fallen under the swords of the loyal knights. There, the excommunication of the knight was pronounced to all. Then, to the singing of psalm 109, the treacherous knight was bound onto a scaffold, and had to watch his shield being broken into three peaces. Now, both his knighthood and his soul were lost forever. The following day, the executioner was to come to pay the Judas for his sins. Yet Sir Reimar, it seemed, was not content with the disgrace he had hitherto heaped upon his noble name.”

Wenzel took a deep breath, as if now he was approaching the most sinister part of the story.

“Reimar did not wait to receive his just punishment. In the night, he escaped from the dungeons of Acre and has never been seen by any man since. Thus it came that the lands of Sir Reimar of Joringard, who had betrayed both the Church and his own honor, were forfeit to his overlord and passed to another. But the Castle of Sir Reimar, the castle of Joringard, the castle of a man excommunicated, banned, deprived of honor and Christianity – this castle none dared to enter and declare his possession. The servants, learning of their master’s fate, fled in terror, fearing the papal ban which would hit anyone still found to be in the service of the excommunicated, and since this day the Castle has gone to ruin and the name Joringard has become a terror to all the people of eastern Pomerania.”

“Not all, I’d have said,” grinned Gundolf. “I can think of 5 exceptions.” He looked at the grim figure of Jan. “Oh no, sorry, I meant four.”

“Now look here, fellow,” snarled Jan, “I may not like to be in this miserable hovel, may the man be cursed who built it for the hellish traitor Reimar, but I ain’t too badly shaken to brake your jaw. Got that?”

Harun did not really listen to the ensuing bickering. He thought about the story of Sir Reimar of Joringard. Now he knew why he felt so comfortable in this castle ruin. Should he really happen to meet the ghost of Sir Reimar wandering through his deserted castle, he would be a pleasure to shake him by the hand and use the occasion for a detailed study of the supernatural.

*~*~*~*~*

Some time in the night Harun fell asleep and dreamed of the castle ghost coming to visit him to lecture him about how to fillet fish. The others, despite of their fear of the place, could not keep their eyes open indefinitely. They too fell asleep, and silence descended over the Castle of Joringard.

The five of them awoke to a glorious morning. Although not much of it could be seen inside, with only a few strips of sunlight falling through the embrasures high up on the walls, it was clear that the autumn sun shone with all its power. For the first time the hall in which they had spent the night was illuminated.

Harun stretched his limbs, yawned, and looked around. How ridiculous that he once had thought this place dangerous. In fact it was a very homely looking room, even with the big moth holes in the colored tapestries and one chair missing a leg.

Most of the grandiose architecture was in perfect condition: massive stone walls sheltered the five travelers from the outside world; the ceiling, hidden in darkness, was supported by thick wooden beams covered with intricate carvings of flowers.

Not only the hall itself was in good condition: all of the tables, all of the chairs but one stood in their right place. Even the candlesticks and some pieces of crockery were still on the table. The hall looked as if at any moment a great lord might come in through the door with his friends beside him and servants bustling everywhere, to hold a banquet in honor of the new day.

But no, Harun thought.

No one would be entering this beautiful hall, only some people would soon be leaving, himself unfortunately included, and then they would go to Danzig, and from there back to Sevenport, if they were not slaughtered by raiders on the way. Would he be able to persuade Sir Christian to swap castles, possibly? No, probably not. Sir Christian would not for the life of him live in the castle of an excommunicated man, a man who had betrayed the Church and failed to complete his crusade. Silly sod.

Harun got up, thinking about crusades. Al-hamdu li-llah for the fact there was no holy city in these parts. No one would ever think of staging such a bloody charade as a crusade here in Eastern Europe.

The scribe looked down on the still sleeping Wenzel. Then his eyes wandered to the person directly beside him and widened. Well, well. It was of course only natural for people to sleep close to one another if they were cold, and some time during the night the fire had gone out. But it might be advisable to create a little distance between the pair on the floor before Jan woke up. And before any of the pair of them woke up, too. How one behaved in sleep was one thing, but the scribe was not so sure whether both of them were ready for Wenzel's arm to be there yet while they were awake. Harun bent down and tugged at Wenzel’s leg. Was it possible for people to be more intelligent and straightforward asleep than awake? Well, if anybody could manage it, it would be these two.

The guard grunted as he was dragged away from the fireplace but did not wake up. Harun managed a few feet, then capitulated and collapsed onto the floor next to his friend. He forbore from applying the same precautionary relocation to Edith. Wenzel was far enough away now, and the scribe would not have known were to seemly fasten his grip on her in any case.

Harun let his eyes wander over his companions, all of whom were still sleeping. He actually had been the first to wake up? This was something of a novelty for him. Well, other than him, the others had not exactly taken to their temporary shelter and had probably not gotten a very good night's sleep.

Well, except Wenzel, of course.

Just then the guard yawned and stretched. “Hmm, did I sleep well. I had a wonderful dream.”

“I can imagine that,” murmured Harun.

“Are the raiders gone?”

“No. I looked in on them half an hour ago, and they told me that they had not finished their breakfast yet.”

“You’re in a bad mood this morning, ain’t you. What’s up?”

“Were leaving.”

Wenzel's face lit up. “Yes, ain’t life wonderful.” He obviously was delighted about their departure.

Harun did not waste time with making clear his contrasting point of view. The only point of view Wenzel was probably interested in at the moment, was one from which a certain peasant girl was clearly visible.

Harun sighed, and looked around the hall. Well, if they had to leave, better get it over with.

“It is probably, generally speaking,” he said. “Let’s wake the others up. We still have a long way ahead of us to Danzig and if we hurry up we night not have to travel by night again. It would be better to avoid that, it will be too dangerous for Edith,” he added, just in case.

“Quite right,” Wenzel agreed immediately. “I’ll wake her, you go and get our driver moving.”

“So you get the girl and I get Jan? A fair arrangement.”

“Oh, shut up,” Wenzel growled. As he turned, Harun could see his friend's ears turning pink.

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So, this chapter was totally different from others. How did you like the Story of Sir Reimar? Have a guess what significance it will have later in the book... ;)

Cheers

Robert

P.S: External link leads to my tumblr blog