What was revealed beneath the pale sheet was even more pale, and considerably more disconcerting. Harun swallowed hard. Suddenly, he was thankful for the once again flavorless supper this evening. Had it been more appetizing, he might have eaten more of it. And had he eaten more, there would now have been more substance available to react to the violent upheaval in the region of his stomach.

Looking at the body in the morning sunlight in front of the castle, from a safe distance, that had been one thing. But here and now, in the nearly absolute darkness of the chapel, seeing that waxen face, at peace, and yet not at peace at all... Harun shuddered.

The blood around the chest wound had long been washed of. This however only meant that one could now more clearly see the grisly wound it had been concealing.

“Let’s have a closer look, then” he croaked, and actually managed to take a step forward towards the unmoving, illogical horror before him.

He beckoned to Wenzel, who followed reluctantly.

“What is the matter?” he asked, finding some solace in his friend's distress, but also finding it very curious. “You are a soldier, aren’t you? You should be used to seeing wounds. Isn’t it your job to kill enemies which try to take the castle of your Lord?”

“Aye, and can you remember the last time anyone attacked Sevenport Castle?”

Harun thought.

“No”, he replied.

“Neither can I. It has been a very nice, quiet life here. Until I had the misfortune of meeting you.”

“It was not I who killed him.”

“No. But you couldn’t keep your long, inky fingers off an intellectual problem, even if it was a stinking dead one down a fifty feet well.”

“No, I could not. So are you going to stand there complaining about it or are you going to help me?”

Wenzel took a deep breath and stepped beside the bier.

“Now,” said Harun, “the wound. What can you tell me about it?”

“That the fellow died from it.”

“Shukran, my friend, I believe that much I had grasped myself. What else?”

“What else do you expect?”

“Well, can you perhaps say who inflicted it upon him?”

Wenzel smiled sarcastically at his friend.

“I don’t believe so, no.”

Harun shrugged.

“Don’t look at me like that. It never hurts to ask.”

“It might next time. I’ve got my dagger with me.”

“Ha, ha. Can you perhaps tell me how long ago Lukas received the wound?”

“What good would that do? I thought you knew when he was done in?”

“I merely was curious.”

Wenzel snorted. “If satisfying your morbid taste of curiosity is all I’m here for, I think I’ll better clear off.”

“No, wait.” Harun raised his hand, thinking. “How about the weapon? Do you know what sort of weapon was used?”

“Yea, of course. You really must think I’m dumb. That’s a sword wound, as clear as daylight.”

Wenzel, having had enough of this waste of his time, wanted to turn away from the body, but at the sight of his friend’s face, he froze.

“What’s up?”

Haruns features changed quickly: First came an expression of realization, then of puzzlement, and finally of utter confusion.

“Wenzel,” he said slowly, “are you sure about this?”

“Of course I’m sure. The form is unmistakable, every soldier would tell you so. It could never be a pike or an ax. They would leave a much bigger and curved wound. And it couldn't have been a spear or an arrow either, that would be a much smaller, round wound. Now what is the matter with you? It can’t be that important what sort of weapon he’s been killed with. Not for him, at any rate.”

“To him it makes little difference, true”, Harun admitted, still this perplexed expression on his dark, oval face. “But do you not see that to us, it makes all the difference? We had concluded that the dead man, Lukas, could not possibly have been killed by anyone living within the castle.”

“Aye.” Wenzel nodded. “We had concluded that. I’d nearly forgotten.”

There was silence for a moment.

“So?” prompted Wenzel.

Harun sighed. “We know the murdered man was not killed by somebody living in the castle. We know that he was killed with a sword. But outside the castle is nothing but forest, fields and a peasants’ village. Trees do not kill people except by falling on them, and I have not come across any which would have needed a sword for that. Crops would, I believe, have even less of a chance. And as for peasants… Tell me, my friend, how many peasants are likely to possess a sword? How many ploughmen are likely to have hidden beneath their flea-infested straw sacks the very symbol of proud chivalry, with which they routinely dispose of their enemies during secret nightly meetings beside deep, dark wells?”

“Eh… not very many?”

“That is certainly a way of putting it.”

*~*~*~*~*

Perhaps Harun should have been discouraged by his contradicting discovery. In fact, he was not. On the contrary, the more complicated and confusing his intellectual task of solving Lukas' murder became, the more excited he grew. Living in the castle of Sir Christian, it was a new and wonderful feeling to have something to think about. All contradictions would disappear in time, of that he was certain, if he went about the matter with logic, following the example of the numerous great thinkers before him. That night, after Harun and Wenzel had carefully replaced the shroud and left the chapel, Wenzel had gone off to get a drink, or several, if he could find them. Harun however went back to the Scriptorium and sat there, thinking. No candle was lit. Only the moonlight, transformed through the golden planes of horn covering the window, threw a faint, warm glow on the stone floor. Nothing disturbed the logical thinking of the night.

Come the morning, Harun had reached a decision. He had to talk to somebody. Not to Wenzel – Wenzel was his friend, but what good is a friend to the logical mind if he does not poses the information required? He had to speak to somebody who knew the village well, who was in daily contact with most of its inhabitants. There was of course the plebanus, the village priest. Yet Harun was doubtful about his abilities to extract useful information from any man trained by the same organization as Father Ignatius. There was only one alternative: the steward. Although Harun did not have very high hopes there, too, he saw possibilities. The man had never called him an accursed infidel or made prophecies about his posthumous destiny containing fire and never-ending agonies of torture. That may have merely been because he had ignored Harun completely, but at least his attitude was slightly less hostile than that of the clergy. Talking to Radulf would be worth a try.

After Breakfast Harun approached the man, who was just going to get up and leave, and bowed. He was not sure whether this was necessary; the exact social position of a steward was something of a mystery to him. But the man wore a very fine, silken doublet, and a sword, which Harun had no trouble reminding himself told of considerable wealth, so he preferred to act subservient.

“Yes?” Radulf asked, surprised.

“Forgive me for troubling you, Sir, but if it does not inconvenience you, I should very much like to have a word with you.”

The steward looked still more surprised at this, but nodded, which Harun took as a prompting for him to carry on.

“Shukran, Sir, Shukran, I am much in your debt. I wondered whether you, having daily dealings with the folk of the village, could provide me with certain information I require.”

“Such as?”

“Such as who, of the people in the village, might possess a sword.”

Radulf’s expression remained blank for a moment, then he smiled. “A sword? For what reason do you want to know that? You are not, I hope, thinking of changing your profession and turning soldier, scribe?”

“No.”

“Good. I could hardly bear another week of Masses for the sake of a poor departed soul. If Sir Christian thought that for you a week would suffice. He probably would hold masses for a fortnight, just so that he could get you out of hell and into purgatory.”

“The reason I require this information,” Harun said, “has nothing whatsoever to do with me personally, Sir. I need the Information in connection with a treatise I am thinking of writing.”

Harun had thought up this explanation beforehand. He would have been the first one to grant that it was not a very good one, but should his counterpart in the conversation inquire what strange sort of treatise required such information, Harun could deliver an explanation containing so many long words in Greek that anybody would not understand it but would be obliged to pretend to have done so.

Radulf, however, did not question the explanation. He simply shrugged and gave Harun a thoughtful look. “Well, the answer depends. Do you want to know of somebody who actually does possess a sword? If that is the case, I am afraid I cannot help you. I am not in the habit of searching the village people’s houses. If you simply wish to know who might own such a weapon, on account of his profession or wealth, then…”

“Yes?”

“Then I could think of several people. There’s the smith for example…”

Harun gave himself a mental clip around the ears, which was much more appropriate for an intellectual than its physical counterpart, and also much better, because it didn’t hurt so much. Of course! The smith. Who would be more likely to own heaps of weapons of any kind? With a simple way at hand of disposing of them, at that:

-Oh, Milord, here I have a fine sword I made for you.

-Are you sure of its qualities, smith?

-Believe me, Milord, it is tried and tested…

“…and apart from that several of the richer free peasants. They might have enough money to buy a sword, but they would think twice before wearing it openly, I think.”

“That, Sir” Harun answered with another deep bow, “is not really relevant to my treatise. Shukran again, may your path in life be littered with riches and joy.”

The steward nodded, smiling. “I’m sure it will be.”

Harun turned away, but the steward called him back.

“Yes?” Harun inquired. The man was still smiling at him. What a pleasant man, so different from the other people in the castle. Harun had never noticed that before.

“If your treatise is finished, could I see the result?” Radulf asked.

“Of course you will get to see it, Sir. Everybody will.”

*~*~*~*~*

Harun had pursued the following train of reasoning: Everybody – barring women, perhaps, and monks, certainly, and, oh yes, Sir Christian – had a logical reason for everything they did. Therefore, the murderer of Lukas the peasant must have had a reason to murder his victim. You didn't just kill somebody for no good reason, right?

The list of suspects had already been narrowed down considerably. It now consisted only of a few people in a small village. If one could find out which of these people had the strongest reason to commit the murder in question, then this would be a clear indication of his guilt.

Harun was very proud of this, his own newly developed method. With its help he came to the conclusion that the only thing for him to do next was to find out more about the victim and his remaining suspects. To obtain such information, which was not concerned with the wealth or social standing of the village people, but with their ideas, feelings and thoughts, the steward was not the right source. The right source of information for such news would rather be a man who often spent his Sunday afternoon wassailing into the sunset on the alcoholic ship of the village tavern. And Harun knew exactly the right kind of man.

*~*~*~*~*

As Wenzel saw Harun approach, he made a move as though he wanted to run away. But since he was on guard duty in front of the main gate, that would have proved rather difficult.

“Ahlan ya, Wenzel. I am glad to find you here.”

“I’m not.”

“There is something I want you to help me with.”

Wenzel pulled a face. “Found another body, have you?”

“No, I am quite content with the one I have, thank you.”

“How undemanding of you.”

Harun tapped his foot on the ground impatiently. “All I need is a little more information.”

“If that means another nightly trip to the chapel, you can forget it. I’ve had enough of that to last me a lifetime.”

“Nothing like that, my friend. I have by now advanced considerably towards the heart of this mystery, and have eliminated everybody barring four or five people.”

“That must have been a bloody massacre. May God have mercy on your poor heathen soul.”

“Wenzel?”

“Aye, Harun?”

“That joke is growing somewhat tiresome, do you know that?”

“I haven’t found a better one to replace it yet.” Wenzel leaned back against the wall, resigned to his fate. “Go on, then. What do you want to know?”

“Who do you think could have had a reason for killing Lukas the peasant?”

Wenzel shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps the murderer?”

Harun placed his ink-stained fingers together to steady himself mentally. “All right, I see that we will have to go about this differently. The richer free peasants in the village – do you know them?”

“Well, know….” The guard hesitated. “I’ve emptied a pint or two with them, if that’s what you mean.”

“It should suffice. What are their names?”

Wenzel looked at him suspiciously. “Why do you want to know their names?”

“Because I have come to the conclusion that one of them might have committed the murder.”

Wenzel's jaw dropped. “What? Karl, Michal and Daniel? Impossible!”

“Shukran, my friend.” Harun bowed. “Many thanks.”

“For what?”

“For giving me the information I required – their names.”

“Wha- oh, damn!” The guard looked downhearted. “You’re so damn clever, you can worm anything out of my nose.”

Harun doubted very much whether this was to be attributed to an especially great deal of cleverness on his part, yet said nothing.

“And the smith? Henrik, I believe he’s called.”

“Look here,” the castle guard protested, “none of these people can be the murderer.”

“Why not?”

“Because... because.... Because why on earth should any of them have killed Lukas?”

Harun smiled contentedly. “You see? We are back at my original question: who might have wanted him dead, and why. Now all that remains is, instead of you putting this question to me, for me to put it to you and for you to answer it. After all, you know them.”

“But I'm telling you, nobody of them had any reason to kill Lukas.”

“That cannot be. If people stick swords into one another, they must have a reason for doing so.”

“Well, these four hadn’t, and that’s a fact. For God’s sake, Karl is Lukas’ brother. Why should he want to kill him?”

Harun thought. For what reason did people kill people? He thought of his bible studies as Sir Christian’s scribe, and the story of Nabob's vineyard.

“To inherit?” he suggested.

“Nonsense.” Wenzel waved his hand. “Karl is one of the richest free peasants in the village. His father left him every acre he had. Lukas was the younger son, he got nothing. Of course Karl looked after him, but when Lukas came of age and wanted to get married, he agreed to become a bondsman in exchange for a oxgang of the land lately cleared by fire.”

“And now that he’s dead?”

“If Karl were to claim the land – which wouldn’t have to mean he got it, not by a long shot – he would have to become a bondsman himself. At he moment, Karl is a wealthy free peasant, his own master in his house. If he got the land, he would have to give up his liberty in exchange for a few extra fields.”

Harun hesitated. He did not know much about the life of peasants.

“Is the land that good?” he asked.

Wenzel only looked at him. The scribe sighed.

“So the only death anybody would have gained anything worth gaining by would have been Karl’s, not Lukases.”

“Quite so. Only Karl didn’t die. And, I may add, he doesn’t show the slightest interest in claiming his brother’s bondsman lands. Why should he, if he’s still in his right mind?”

“Who do they go to, then, if not his brother?”

“His widow, I suppose, as guardian of his eldest son.”

At that, Harun pricked his ears.

“His eldest son?”

“Who is currently about 3 years old.”

“Oh.”

“Aye. And I fervently hope you don’t think that Lukas’ young wife skewered him with a sword to secure a premature inheritance for her accomplice, the evil toddler?”

“You are showing uncanny signs of witty humor, my dear Wenzel.”

“Not really. If you make fun of something, the more laughable it is, the easier it gets.”

Harun nodded. “That was plain enough. My friend, forgive me, min fadlak, but I have to ask these questions.”

Wenzel nodded grumpily. “Be thankful that you’ve asked me and not Karl. You would have been walking home with your teeth in your pocket.”

“May I continue?”

“I suppose so.”

“What about the other people? The remaining two rich peasants and the smith of the village?”

“What about them?”

“Was there any quarrel between one of them and Lukas? Any feeling of resentment or jealousy?”

“No. They hardly ever met, I should think. The new fields where Lukas lived are some way off from the main village.”

The scribe raised an eyebrow. “And I suppose they too all had heaps more money than Lukas?”

“Aye. Disappointing, ain’t it?”

“Quite.”

“So you see, you’ll have to poke around yourself. I can’t help you.”

“So it seems.” Harun was silent for a minute or two, thinking. Wenzel was watching him with an expression of mild amusement.

The scribe yawned. He had not noticed it till now, but he was tired. Small wonder that was. After all, he had been up all night, staring at a dead man. Oh well, he would just have to take a little nap and postpone his plans until the evening. It would be better that way anyhow.

“If I want to go into the village in the evening, can you let me out of the castle and in again later?”, he asked.

Wenzel’s expression turned into one of horror. “Harun, you don’t really want to go and talk to the four of them? Are you mad? If you march into the tavern in the evening, with all the village folk there, and you go up to Karl and ask him what reason he could have had for mur… They’ll smash your face in, as sure as God's in his heaven!”

“I was not planning to inquire in the village tavern. You may rest assured that I want to keep my face the way it is. I just want to go and have a look at that field of Lukases – there may be something there or around his house which could indicate a reason for his murder. And the evening simply seems a better time to do this than in broad daylight. What do you believe Lukas’ neighbors would think if they saw an accursed infidel crawling across the field of their lately deceased friend?”

“Point taken. All right, I’ll let you out and in again. It’s possible – the night comes earlier and earlier now that winter is approaching and I’m on duty till some time after nightfall. But do be back in time, will you? The night shift can’t let you in, and even if they could, I doubt very much they would do so.”

“I am quite aware of that.” Harun yawned again. “Thank you in advance, my friend. This excursion could prove to be important. You must know: something has been worrying me at the back of my mind… As though I had read or heard something important concerning Lukas’ piece of land... what's it called again?”

“An oxgang. A piece of land farmed by a bondsman is called oxgang.”

“Yes. I think I know something important about his oxgang, but I can't remember what it is. I don’t know why, but I have a feeling that the newly cleared fields beside the forest hold a secret, the revelation of which will unlock this whole mystery.”

“You don’t know why?”Wenzel grinned an insolent grin. “What has happened to your logic? Your elimination of high possible ifs?”

“Hypotheses.” Harun shock his head, half wearily, half angrily – but with himself. He really was tired, and his head didn't work right when he was tired. “That’s just it. I feel I do have a logical reason for thinking what I think, I just cannot remember it.”

Wenzel clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s how I’ve been feeling for the last 20 years or so. Don’t bother, one can get pretty well through life all the same.”

“I would laugh, if I weren’t too tired. I’m going to bed now.”

“Now?!” Wenzel stared at him. “The sun has gone up just an hour ago!”

“Yes. Logical thinking is tiring work.”

“Well you’d know that. Good ni- ehm, good day, oh honorable shurta.”

A tired smile appeared on the scribe’s face.

“So you finally remembered. Ma’a as-salama. Until tonight, my friend.”

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My longest chapter yet, I think! Did you like it? Shukran to everybody who votes, comments and fans!

For those who haven't guessed yet - Shukran is arabian and means 'Thank you very much' :-)

My facebook page can be reached, as usual, via the external link on the right. Hoping to hear from you,

Kind Regards

Robert