“I look around me and what do I see?” The steward shot venomous looks in all directions. “I see lies and calumny everywhere! I see men who have given themselves over to bewitchment and betrayal!”

“If abuse is all we shall hear from you, you can stop here and now,” Sir Christian retorted sternly. “You have been found guilty. should repent, and beg for forgiveness.”

Harun covered his face with his hands. If you wanted to learn fast that however noble and honorable a man can be, he can also be a damn silly twit, there was no doubt, Sevenport was the place to go to. Radulf seemed to think along similar lines.

“Repent?” he spat. “What do I have to repent of?”

“You are proven guilty of murder, the most gruesome crime on earth – after heresy of course.”

Harun buried himself still deeper in his long fingers.

“Repent now, before it is too late. You will not have much time left. The finding of this court is not challengeable.”

“Oh, but it is.”

Away were the hands. Harun stared at Radulf. What was the man talking about? Had he gone mad? Yet the smile on Radulf’s face did not seem to Harun to be the smile of a madman. Rather that of a hungry wolf. And the wolf began to growl.

“Karl has started an intrigue, an intrigue to destroy my good name. He has enlisted help from all sides, and shirked from no devilish deed. Well, that leaves only one road open to me. Sir Christian, it is to you, as my Overlord, that I speak. I have nothing to repent, for as God sees us, I am innocent.”

‘Which tells you something about his amount of faith,’ Harun thought but said nothing. What was the man planning? He was sentenced, as good as dead, justice had triumphed, even if it had taken a rather crazy, roundabout way. What could Radulf do now?

The steward gave the answer to the question burning in Harun’s mind almost immediately.

“I am guilty of no murder. So I hereby challenge the finding of this court. I want to submit myself to the only justice left to me, a higher justice than that of men. I want to submit myself to God’s justice, and therefore I appeal for a trial by combat.”

*~*~*~*~*

A few minutes later, two figures were striding over the fields, away from the village. One of them small, silent and thoughtful, the other tall and not very silent.

“A trial by combat? By combat? I truly believe this whole country has lost its mind. Do you mean to say people here can turn justice upside down simply by bashing someone on the head?”

“It is not turning justice upside down,” Wenzel protested quietly. “It is the ultimate justice. The idea is that God intervenes on behalf of the righteous.”

“And does he?”

“How should I know. I’ve never seen a trial by combat. But it is said that God will not allow the innocent to be slain.”

“Indeed. And why, may I ask, did God not intervene when Radulf was impaling Lukas with his noble cutlery? Was he sleeping? Or taking a holiday, perhaps?”

“Nhmm.”

“That is not altogether a satisfactory answer.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Harun looked over his shoulder back at the village. Was Karl still standing there, in front of the church, immobile as if tied to the spot? Just as he had been when Sir Christian had said:

“So it shall be. I set the day of the battle at ten days from now.”

It had been so very terrible to look at Karl's mournful face. Harun wanted to speak to the peasant, but did not dare. Too much people were about, all silent, tense, too. He had grabbed the equally thunderstruck Wenzel and made his way out of the village, while nobody paid any attention to him.

He literally felt the anxiety and fear of the village boiling behind him. Yet understand it, he did not. Now that he had vented some of his anger at the insanity of Pomeranian customs, the image of the horror on Karl’s face returned to him, and he wondered.

Certainly this postponement was vexing, but the peasant was a giant of a man, with big muscles built up through heavy work, while Radulf was only of medium height. And the way Karl had swung his flail around that first night Harun had met him, he was likely to be pretty handy with any weapon available.

“Surely he couldn’t not want to avenge his brother’s death,” Harun murmured. “Why bring the matter up at all, if that was the case?”

“Eh? What’s that?”

“I just wondered why Karl looked so thunderstruck at the news.”

“Why? Harun, are you crazy?”

“What do you mean? Karl is a big, heavy fellow. He should easily be able to ram Radulf into the mud.”

“Able? What’s it got to do with him being able? He can’t fight Radulf!”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s a commoner! A peasant!”

“And what has that got to do with it?”

“Everything! A commoner may not raise arms against a nobleman on pain of death.”

Harun stopped in his tracks. Had he heard right?

“On pain of…Why the nether regions not?”

“It is forbidden by ancient law and custom.”

Despairingly, the scribe raised his hands to the heavens.

“You people have a condemned side to many ancient laws and customs, do you know that? So what is Karl supposed to do when the day of the trial by combat comes? Trot round to Radulf’s and apologize for having bothered him?”

“No. He must find a champion. A seasoned knight and professional tournament fighter, who can take his place at the fight.”

“Oh, he must, really? My friend, perhaps it is just me, you know, I have only been around here a couple of years. But you have lived all your life in Sevenport, haven’t you? How many professional tournament fighters have you chanced to meet on your evenings out? Because – don’t take me wrong – I have a certain notion that they might not be available in flogs around these parts. But perhaps they have been hiding from me?”

Wenzel hung his head, looking sadder and more disheveled than he ever had.

“Don’t think so, no.”

On this depressing conclusion, they parted.

*~*~*~*~*

Harun wandered over the fields for hours and almost did not notice the cold. That alone said enough about his current state of mind.

Trial by combat…

He shook his curly-haired head. There really was no limit to the amount of madness men were able to come up with. Slowly, he let his eyes wander along the horizon. Maybe he hoped a champion tournament fighter would appear somewhere. If so, he was disappointed. No sudden trampling of hooves came. No polite, strong, manly voice originated from under a helmet, saying: “You there, abominable heathen dog! Lead me to the place where I may battle for heaven’s justice, now, or I shall hack your feet off!”

Harun sighed and continued his way on his still firmly attached feet.

He found himself wandering into the forest in search of help – not so much in form of a knight as in that of a square meal. The scribe could only too well remember when he had last eaten and it was far too long ago for his liking. Perhaps it was Allah taking pity on a poor, hungry soul, perhaps it was just luck: Harun found Bertram’s cottage without much trouble. And his host-to-be was present also, hacking firewood in the small clearing.

In spite of his own troubles which rather forcefully occupied a major portion of his mind, Harun could not help but marvel at the nerve of the man. Felling trees, just as hunting deer, was a privilege of the nobility, on the presumption of which by a commoner stood the death-penalty. Everyone, even Harun, who had been so unfortunately under-informed on Pomeranian legal practices, knew that.

Perhaps the recluse was just reckless. Or he did not care much for his own life. Or he had discovered that certain local noblemen would be likely to overlook any trespassing on their rights by anyone who appeared sufficiently holy.

At this moment, Bertram caught sight of the spindly figure standing at the edge of the clearing. He called out a greeting, rammed the ax into the wood for a final time and leaned on it.

“Hello, hello. I hear you have been busy, scribbler. How did the matter go? Is the fellow swinging already?”

“You… you already know about the accusation at the court?”

“Oh yes. It seems that one of the honest men declaring his faith in Radulf’s innocence did not altogether feel comfortable with his decision to do so after the verdict. Perhaps because he was forced to do so through Radulf’s detailed knowledge of an interesting little episode with the neighbour’s daughter.”

“The gluteus maximus!”

“Broadly speaking, you are correct, though I take issue with your misuse of that fine language.”

“And how did you get to hear about it?”

“The aforementioned honest man apparently thought he might be a bit more honest if he got the whole thing off his chest. So he hurried over here and confessed to me.”

“But you are no priest.”

Bertram grinned. “Yes, but he didn't know that. And I didn't feel like disappointing him. It was a very interesting story. Finest village romance, with secrecy and evil forces into the bargain.”

“Why did the fellow not go to the village priest?

“Oh, I cannot think why he might chose not to. It would not have been difficult, seeing as he lives inside the church.”

The following pauses slowly filled itself with meaning.

Harun cleared his throat. “Do you mean the priest, that one in the village, and his neighbor's daughter…”

“Yea, my friend.”

“I thought priests were supposed not to…”

“What people are supposed to do and what they do are often two very different things, I have come to notice. Rome is far away and life is short.”

Life is short.

Harun had altogether forgotten his purpose in coming here. But these words brought it back to him quickly enough. The load of responsibility for the impending disaster descended on his shoulders once more and his stomach resumed its rumbling.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Ah. So something went wrong, did it?”

Harun whinced. “You might say that. You might also say that I have officially made a manure of everything. Or perhaps it was not me. That does not change the fact that if I cannot find a way to put everything right, an innocent man will be disgraced, or dead even if this country has got another crazy law in store.”

“Lucky him.”

“What?!”

A short, sharp, humorless grin flashed over Bertram’s features. “An innocent man gains direct entry into heaven. Now if we had an evil villain dying, as a devout Christian, I would be worried. He would go to purgatory or hell and I would have to pray for him. But a good man dying? That's no cause for concern for a devout Christian like me.”

“Devout Christian? Hang it all, Bertram….”

“It may well be all hung. Or he may be, to be precise.”

“That’s far too serious a matter to joke about,” Harun proclaimed, in his best learned lecture voice.

“Do you think so?”

Bertram shot him an inquiring look, then turned and opened the door to his little home. “Life’s short, Harun. And the most serious matters are often the most gruesomely amusing ones – once you’ve gotten used to them. Come on in.”

They entered. Bertram, without asking, guessed the real purpose of Harun’s visit and spread the contents of his larder on the wooden table. They sat down, and over a meal as hearty as he had ever had, Harun unloaded his troubles on the silent, hard-faced man. Not that he hoped a hermit, however holy, could produce a knight ready for the fray out of his hood. It was simply a relief to talk about his troubles to someone who could listen intelligently and silently.

“Your fears concerning what might happen if you fail to find a champion are more than justified,” was one of Bertram’s scarce comments. “I can tell you for certain that if one party fails to turn up to a field meeting, the case of this party is forfeit. Which in this case would mean…”

“…that although Radulf has been proven guilty, it is Karl who would hang?” Harun finished the sentence, horrified.

“Exactly.”

“And they talk about their God’s justice! Where is the justice in that?!”

“There isn’t any. That is the problem when men presume to know a way to the will of God.”

Angrily, Harun bit a chunk out of a piece of meat. He didn’t know what part of what animal it was, but that did not make it taste any less delicious. All too delicious, for the other positive aspects of life at the moment came up to a very short list. He chewed in silence for a while. Finally, Bertram asked:

“And have you thought about it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you thought about how to find a knight and ask him to fight at the trial?”

“I will take my hat off to you, if you can find a knight that would listen to me.”

“Well, not you then, but Karl. He’s a respected, free man, with a bit of money of his own, probably, or at least something that could be turned into such. Cannot he find a professional fighter?”

Harun thought about it. Until now, the idea of finding a nobleman and ask him to fight for Karl had seemed so ridiculous to him that he had not bothered to think about it. The way Bertram made it sound was as though it was something done every week after shopping at the market.

“Now how would you persuade a nobleman to fight for a peasant?” he objected.

“As I said, with money of course. All of these professional tournament fighters fight only for money. Or for booty, because they get the horse and armor of the vanquished enemy. Has Radulf got a horse?”

“I think so… yes, I have seen him riding about.”

“And he’ll hardly be likely to turn up to a duel to the death clad in a loincloth only. He will have an armor. Armor is valuable. So that is something to be mentioned to any fighter.”

“But this is no tournament, Bertram. A rule about the winner getting the loser’s horse and armor does not apply to a trial by combat, surely.”

“Probably not. But if your fighter should win, can you see Radulf having any great use for either of them? He'll be hanged shortly after. Corpses don't need or lay claim to anyhting.”

Harun’s head was spinning. This was going too fast for him. It just could not be true. It was too good to be true.

“Where does one find this pleasantly greedy species of knights?”

“In any big town, I should imagine. They regularly hold tournaments, or used to do so in my days, anyway. I don’t think man has grown that much less festive and bloodthirsty in just a few decades.”

Depression gripped Harun. He had been right. It was indeed too good to be true.

“In… big towns, you say?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Bertram, the only big town where there could be knights in the vicinity is Danzig.”

“So what?”

“But, Bertram, Danzig is more than a week’s journey away. We would need a week to reach it, a few days to find a knight, and another week to get back. And the date for the trial is set to one week from now!”

“Hmm. That’s certainly a catch.”

Which was not the way Harun would have expressed his feelings, if he had had any energy left to do so. Ah well, it had been a nice dream, for a minute. But reality had caught up with him once more.

“In a week, you say?” Bertram asked, his voice suddenly thoughtful.

“Mmmh…? Yes, yes, in a week.”

Karl would die. And he, Harun, what would he do? If he had any decency and courage, he would cut his own throat for having caused the death of an innocent man. Well, he had decency, but courage… no, on the whole he would probably not cut his throat. But what else could he do?

“And no way to get a fighter from anywhere? Not a single man you know?”

“Wha- no of course not!”

“Harun, this point is important. Can you not think of anybody?”

“No, I cannot!”

“Hm, hm.” Bertram sounded even more thoughtful, but Harun didn't care.

Abruptly, he got up. “No, I cannot,” he repeated. “There is no one. Karl is doomed to die, and I am feeling miserable… But it is my problem, I have caused it, and I have to deal with it. Bertram, I’m sorry I have come here to burden you with all this when I knew nobody could do anything about it. I just felt so forlorn, I had to talk to somebody.”

“Oh, that’s all right.” Absentmindedly, Bertram made a dismissive gesture. “You come any time you want to. What is a friend for if not to help, when there is need?”

“Yes, I thank you for the food. I am feeling a bit better know.”

“What? Oh, the food, yes… you are welcome.”

“Then…Ma’a salama.”

“Good bye.”

Harun left, weighed down by the feeling of impending doom and an overfull stomach. The latter feeling wasn't too bad, though.

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Radulf has an evil Plan! :) :) And we are nearing the climax of this story. I think there are two or three chapters left to write. Then what will I do? Relax in the sun or dive immediately dive into my research for my next historical fiction? I think it's gonna be the latter :) :)

Your history-fanatic

Robert