The next, or more precisely the rest of the same day, gave Harun not much opportunity to think quietly, and even less for any shurta exploits. The village cock – obviously not prone to have mercy on a poor pursuer of murderous rogues who had only two hours of sleep at his disposal – crowed with unmerciful consistency in the glowing golden sunlight of dawn.

Down in the main hall, at the breakfast table – how had he managed to get down there? – Harun was not really able to follow the monologue of Sir Christian about the life of Constantine and early martyrdoms. The scribe had to fight his way through his morning bowl of gruel, which he found especially hard today, thinking of the delicious breakfast someone else was probably having at the moment not too far away in a shabby little cottage out in the forest.

Had he not been thus distracted, Harun might have noticed how Sir Christian talked a lot less about Masses being held for the sake of someone’s soul, and a lot more about work to be done in the Scriptorium. However, he was distracted, and only was alerted to the change as Sir Christian remarked: “After the funeral, we can begin to work in honest again. I look forward to it. Nothing could be better for driving away the memory of this dreadful business than immersing oneself once again in the life of saints.”

“What?” Harun’s head jerked upwards. He was so sleepy that he had nearly sunk his overlong, curved nose into the remainder of his breakfast. A thankful shudder ran down his spine. Having the stuff in the mouth was bad enough.

“I said, what we need to put this dreadful businesses behind us, good scribe, is to immerse ourselves in the life of saints.”

Harun frowned. “What dreadful business?”

Sir Christian turned his head and looked at him disapprovingly. “Now, now, Harun. It does not become you to forget the prematurely departed that soon. I am of course talking of the poor peasant Lukas, one of my loyal bondsman, who still lies in the chapel awaiting his burial and, hopefully, his entry into heaven. We all must think of him and labor for his sake, albeit only spiritually.”

“Ah.” Harun smiled wryly and nodded. “How very true.”

Sir Christian’s expression grew less sternly. “So you do know your duties as a fellow Chr- man.”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“That is well. I have heard that yesterday, you were not to be found all day. Truth be told, I was very anxious. After your very proper visit to the chapel, I thought perhaps some demon may have led you astray from this promising path again.”

“But no, Milord. On the contrary, I was continuing on the same path as then.”

“What joy. I for my part have spent the last days in unfaltering service to the poor soul. I have prayed day and night for him to be admitted into heaven, so that we can all be sure everything is well again.”

“Well,” Harun murmured, “that’s not exactly what I have been doing myself, but I have also… tried to resolve certain problems.”

“Indeed?” Interest showed on Sir Christian’s earnest face. “Please do not take offense, but it would interest me very much in what way a heathen like yourself could have contributed to the man’s deliverance.”

“I…ehm…” Harun thought, furiously. “I… went into the forest, to a pious recluse, who lives out there a life of utter humility, and beseeched him to help me, as I myself was devoid of direction in my life, lost in the dark. And he showed me the way through the darkness to the fields of plenty.”

Sir Christian’s face lit up in radiant exuberance.

Harun sighed and turned back to his gruel. Well, technically it hadn't been a lie.

*~*~*~*~*

Harun did not manage to get away from breakfast quite as quickly as usual. He was not allowed to leave until he had given Sir Christian exact directions to this so pious man of whose existence on his own estate Sir Christian had been totally oblivious up until then. When Harun had finally composed as good a set of directions as could be expected of a man who had got lost in the forest, he stood up and hurried out of the hall as quick as his long scribe robes would allow.

As he made his way to the Scriptorium, he thought about what he had been able to extract from Sir Christian, between the lord’s fits of rapture at having discovered a holy man on his own grounds, about the events of the days to come. Today, a final Mass would be said for the sake of Lukas’ poor soul. If the mass of Masses should have any positive effect, Harun reckoned peasant Lukas to be the surest arrival in the Christian heaven since St. Peter.

The day after that, the funeral would be held, and after that, life would return to normal and that would mean back to the goose quill for scribe-shurta Harun. And that was why the funeral was so important: it was Harun's last chance to concentrate all his energy on the mystery of the peasant's death. Just as the many Masses, it would of course be a purely Christian occasion. But it also would not be held within Father Ignatius chapel. Whatever could be done for Lukas' soul there, one could not very well bury a body in a stone floor of a room which at the same time was the ceiling of the room beneath. No, the honorable Christian burial would have to be held under the open sky, making it, so Harun reasoned, much more difficult to keep away unwanted bystanders.

Bystanders like himself for example.

At the funeral, the whole village would gather, and Sir Christian would be there, too – the only man on whom Harun could safely rely on for protection. If he was to find out which of his suspects could have murdered Lukas the peasant, it would have to be then and there. This was his last chance, before the normal duties of a scribe began again to consume too much of his time for him to be able to continue dealing seriously with this matter. Everything would have to be planned exactly. And he would need to have help.

*~*~*~*~*

“No. Oh no, not again. I’m not doing no single crazy thing for you anymore, do you hear?”

“Wenzel, I…”

“Don’t say it! Don’t you say it I know what you’re going to say anyway. Oh, Wenzel, my friend, I need your help.”

“…need your help.”

“I am not listening.”

“Well, then read my lips, if it makes you feel better. You will have to get used to that anyway.”

“What do you mean I will have to get used to that? Do you mean to tell me that from now on, you’ll never say another word to me?” The guard lapsed into silence for a second or two. “Now I come to think about it, that’s not such a bad ide-“

“I will explain what I meant in a minute or two,” Harun interrupted him.

Wenzel sighed. “Shame.”

Ignoring the remark, the scribe continued: “But first I will have to explain something else. You know that the funeral of Lukas is set for tomorrow?”

“Aye,” Wenzel replied, before remembering his intention not to listen.

“It is a crucial date.”

“Is it?” asked Wenzel, his intention not to listen having been wiped out by an acute feeling of anxiety.

“It is. You must know that my attempts to fathom the depths of this mystery have up to now been impeded by very curious contradictions.”

“Ehm…curious contractions, right.”

“There seems to be no earthly motive for any one of my four suspects to have committed this nefarious act, and yet it is proven beyond any doubt that among them the miscreant is to be found.”

“You do that on purpose, don’t you?”

“What, my friend?”

“Using stacks of words I don’t know so that I don’t know what I will be agreeing to do in the end.”

“How came you by such an eccentric conception? I would not on any occasion attempt to delude such a valued companion as your good self. Returning to our current concern – as I stated, one of the said people must be the murderer, necessitating an assiduous inquiry into all these people’s activities at the fatal moment. I, of course, am not in any position to conduct such an inquiry, being of foreign origin and alien religious persuasion likely to arouse their discomfort and malcontent. What such a situation warrants is a man, quick of mind and stout of heart, a man acting as an intermediary between…”

Regardless of how many words Wenzel did not understand of this, his horrified face indicated to the scribe that he by now had gotten the gist.

*~*~*~*~*

“Harun, this is madness!”

They were going down the path to the village together. The funeral was to be held in front of the small, thatched village church by Father Ignatius and the village priest in ecclesiastical cooperation. Normally, had Father Ignatius caught sight of Harun with in 200 feet of the church, he would have personally chased him to purgatory, but the scribe had taken extra precautions.

“Madness? Why?” he asked his companion.

“You can’t go around grilling people about where they were when somebody was murdered at a funeral. It ain’t done.”

“I would have thought that a funeral would be the best of all times to ask that, especially if the fellow in the coffin is the one who has been murdered. Anyway, it will not be me who will be 'grilling people', as you so eloquently put it, but you.”

“That’s exactly why I'm worried.”

“Do not worry. I have planned everything meticulously.”

Wenzel murmured something and scratched his beard, nervously.

“And what if you are recognized?” he asked.

“Then we both are in a considerable deal of trouble.”

“Thank you for reassuring me.” The guard stretched out an accusing finger to point at Harun. “Are you at least going to tell me were you got that outfit?”

The scribe was wearing long brown robes of a course woolen material with long sleeves, a big hood and an even bigger, shabby brown hat. There was a knurled wooden staff in his hand, propped on which he hobbled along as though about twice as much years rested heavily on his shoulders as was actually the case, and a shell-formed piece of white linen was stitched on his garment. Hat and hood combined effectively concealed the scribe’s Saracen features.

“You remember Sir Christian’s pilgrimage?”

“Which one of the seven or eight do you mean?”

“The one he tends to talk of on cold winter evenings.”

“Oh God, aye, I do.” Wenzel's eyes glazed over, and he recited “The bliss of the faces of the crowd was unimaginable, it was as though they had seen our Lord himself stepping unto…”

Harun interrupted him with a wave of his hand. “I see you remember it all right. This was his pilgrim’s gown, back then. I borrowed it.”

“Borro- you stole from Sir Christian’s private chambers?”

“Not stole, I said borrowed, didn't you hear me? What good is me talking to you if you do not listen properly? Besides, it was not as though there was any danger of being interrupted. Sir Christian was hearing the Mass, and I…”

“You stole while the holy Mass was being said?”

“Borrowed. I’ll put it back later today. I thought my timing rather clever.”

Wenzel pulled a face, something he was very good at. “It was. Revoltingly so.”

“Thank you.”

“And why did you ste- borrow it? Sir Christian will not allow any harm to come to you surely, even if you come to the funeral without a disguise.”

“That is as may be, yet I have my doubts that any of the villagers would be willing to answer the questions of an abominable heathen. A devout pilgrim – now that is another matter. Even if they wonder at my reasons of asking, they would not dare to doubt my good intentions.”

The guard bit on his lower lip, unwilling to admit that Harun might actually have come up with a practical idea. “Maybe. But what about your voice? They’ll know that instantly!”

“As to that, I have a little scheme ready.”

He told Wenzel what was in his mind. The guard stared at him as if he had gone mad.

“If that’s what comes of reading Plato, I’m thankful I never tried it myself. Harun, do you honestly think…”

“Yes, I do think. Actually, I think quite a lot. It will work, have no fear.”

“That’s not everything! Even if it works out all right, don’t you think Sir Christian is likely to recognize his own pilgrim's gown? What if he suspects you of being a fraud, or even a thief?”

Under his hood, Harun smiled weekly. “Can you imagine Sir Christian suspecting a pilgrim of anything nefarious?”

“No,” Wenzel muttered meekly. “You’re right.”

They had reached the village. Cobwebs of little, muddy pathways ran between the thatched, half-timbered houses, scattered everywhere as if some mountain-high gambler had dropped them there out of his dice shaker. Finding your way through this miniature Labyrinth would have been even more difficult for Harun than orienting himself in the forest, but for one thing. Thankfully Harun spotted the top of the Church tower above the houses, and went into the direction it indicated. Interesting. Even Christianity had its positive aspects for mankind.

At this moment, the death knell began to ring, singing its strange, high and hollow melody over the wet autumn landscape. Was it just Haruns imagination, or were there clouds approaching to crowd the sky which had been clear up until now? A cold wind tugged at the hem of his pilgrim’s cloak and he pulled it closer around himself. That was no imagination. It was getting colder. The winter was approaching.

“There’s the church,” Wenzel said, pointing forward into the direction of the church tower, as the rest of the building became visible through the gap between two houses. The two of them stepped into an open space in the middle of the village, where, by the looks of it, all of its inhabitants were gathered. Harun passed a quick look over the scene.

There was the forest of wooden crosses beside the church, indicating so clearly to what use this particular part of land was being put since the birth of this little community. There was Sir Christian, there was Father Ignatius, in his second-best clerical outfit, his best obviously being considered to be too fine to wear to the funeral of a mere peasant, and there was another man in far less regal, though also undoubtedly clerical robes whom Harun did not know – probably the village priest. But were his four suspects also present?

Wenzel obviously knew what was passing through his mind. Again, less openly, this time, he raised his hand to point out the four men.

“Do you see the one standing beside the hole for the coffin?”

“The one with the grave face and the long mustaches?” inquired Harun. “That is Karl, I know that already. Remember that I was there when the body was discovered.”

“I do remember. You hardly ever give me a chance to forget it. Now then, who’s next… the big, burly fellow with the scorch marks on his leather trousers…”

“Let me guess – Henrik the smith.”

“Shall I tell you who is who or do you want to tell me?”

“No, continue, your deliberations are most revealing.”

“The small, skinny fellow with the big ears over there, that’s Daniel.”

“That one is supposed to be one of the richest free peasants of the village? He doesn’t look as if he had done a day’s work in his life.”

“Well, he hasn’t, actually, but you don’t have to if you have as many villains as him.”

Harun stared at Wenzel. “He has villains doing his bidding? Then it's him! He's our man!”

Wenzel rolled his eyes. “Not that kind of villains! Villains are a type of low, bonded servants around here. And despite their name, they can be perfectly nice people.”

“Oh. Continue.”

“If anyone is the villain here, it's Daniel. He makes a lot of money out of his vill- his serfs, the miserable way he treats them. If you ever find out who murdered Lukas, I’d like it to be him, if you don’t mind.”

“It does not work like that, Wenzel.”

The guard grunted. “See? That’s the problem I have with this whole investigating. What’s the good of going to all this trouble if you cant’ even get the right result.”

“The last man, Wenzel. Tell me about him.”

“What? Aye, of course. Michal, that’s the man in the middle of things, and filling it out, nicely, too.”

Haruns gaze followed Wenzel’s outstretched finger to a jolly-looking, plump personage in – for a peasant – astonishingly fine clothes and with an astonishingly fine smile on his face, too, considering the occasion.

“He doesn’t look as if he’s done a day’s work in his life, either.”

“That he hasn’t. He, too, is rich enough to have his work done for him, but not mean with his money at least. In fact, I can’t remember him ever being mean with or to anything or anybody. He tends to be... jolly. Laugh on his mother’s funeral, Michal would.”

“He’s certainly doing a nice dress rehearsal today,” Harun commented, watching the peasant’s smiling features. “What do you know about…” But he didn’t get any farther. Sir Christian had spotted the newcomers. He glanced at Wenzel – then he saw Harun, in his pilgrim hat, his pilgrim robes, with his pilgrim staff.

“God be praised,” he shouted, and rushed towards them.

“O Pilgrim on your quest for devotion and love for our Lord, let me heartily welcome you on my lands, albeit on such a sad occasion.” The nobleman gestured towards the burial.

Harun bowed – just in case his hood didn’t reach far enough down to completely conceal his face.

“Please, pilgrim, stay, and lend the glory of your devotion to the occasion. We are burying an honorable Christian among us, and pray that he will reach heaven if the Lord so grants it. Will you not join our prayers?”

Harun nodded.

“My name is Sir Christian of Sevenport, pilgrim, the lowliest of the servants of our Lord Jesus Christ. What is yours, if I may inquire?”

The scribe remained silent. Standing around disguised by a cloak was one thing, but there was no mistaking his distinctly accented voice. If he opened his moth, the charade would be over.

Wenzel cleared his throat.

“He cannot speak, Milord. He has taken a vow of silence.”

“Of course,” said Sir Christian, bowing his head in understanding.

“And how did he communicate that information to you, if he can’t talk?” inquired Father Ignatius, his eyes narrowed suspiciously as he joined the three. But Sir Christian's continued religious fervor spared the guard an answer.

“You must accept my invitation to join us, oh fellow follower of our Lord Jesus Christ,” he begged, beaming. “I myself have undertaken a journey such as yours, but it has been much to long since, indeed, much too long. Your presence at this holy occasion shall be an inspiration to us all.”

Father Ignatius made a movement as though to indicate that he was not one of the 'us all'. But he kept his silence.

Sir Christian nodded eagerly, enthusiastic about his own idea. “Yes indeed you must stay. Your timely arrival must have been arranged by the infinite grace of God. Although you only have been here a few moments, I feel a spiritual bond forming between us. I think it must be, because you look so familiar, your pilgrim’s robe and your staff – it is uncanny! They might very well be my own.”

Beside Harun, Wenzel made an indistinct noise, which, Harun thankfully noticed, Sir Christian paid no attention to whatsoever. Instead he continued: “Stay and console us, devout pilgrim. And afterwards, you must join me for supper in the castle, and allow me to be your host until you continue your journey of faith.”

This was a complication Harun had not reckoned with. He made frantic head movements which needed no interpreter to be understood, even if concealed by hat and hood.

“He will not be able to,” Wenzel said, in a strike of genius. “He has made a vow not to sleep in a bed and consume only what God from heaven shall provide for him, until he has completed his journey”

“Fond of making vows, is he?” Father Ignatius asked.

“What devotion! What wonder of Christian faith,” Sir Christian marveled. Harun had the decency to blush, which luckily nobody saw under the hood. He bowed again. As he did so, the castle priest caught sight of the shell stitched on his garment.

“Is that a shell, my friend?”

Harun nodded, with a sense of foreboding. The Father’s smile was too broad to herald anything good.

“Why, that is strange. For I was of the opinion that a shell is the sign of the pilgrims on the way to Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, at the western end of Christian civilization. We are in Pomerania, my friend, right next to the eastern lands of the heathens. Can it be possible that you have lost your way?”

A vow of silence could be very handy, sometimes, when somebody asked you an inconvenient question. Harun, nodding to Sir Christian and ignoring the priest, stepped towards the grave. The Lord followed him immediately.

“Come, Father Ignatius”, he called back. “Read the Mass for the poor soul.”

Father Ignatius clenched his hands in something rather more than Christian devotion and muttered something. To Wenzel, who was just about to follow Harun, it sounded like: “Not again, dammit!”

“Reverend Pilgrim?”

Harun looked sideways at the man now standing beside him who had spoken to him. It was Lukas brother Karl, his face heavy with sadness.

“I must thank you for agreeing to stay, reverend pilgrim. I’m sure your presence will be a great comfort to my poor brother, looking down upon us now.”

The scribe suddenly felt as though the back of his head was on fire. Guilty fire. He looked up and was extremely glad to find nobody starring down at him. The peasant misinterpreted his gaze and also looked up, sighing heavily.

“Aye, up there he’s now, of that I’m sure. Father Erwin, the village priest, says so, too. He says not to be too sad. As God fearing a Christian as any my brother has been, he says, and sure to find his way to the Lord.”

He crossed himself. Harun under the circumstances thought it best to follow suit, and he did so, quickly, silently, and with a slight pinch of guilt. But after all, there was no reason why even the most devout Muslim should not be touching his forehead, his breastbone, and his breast right and left. Something could be itching there. And, come to think of it, if one were to connect the points with lines, this wouldn’t make a cross anyway. More something like an upturned T.

“But honestly, I’m really glad you’re here, ‘cos of how Lukas died…” Karl shivered. “Couldn’t have been no more ghastly if the devil himself had done it, honestly it couldn’t.”

Harun’s mind was quickly cleared of thoughts about upturned Ts. This conversation was going just the way he wanted to. And now, Wenzel came and stood between him and Karl. The time had come to begin.

Father Ignatius thought the same, obviously. He stepped beside the simple wooden coffin of the murdered man and began his sermon – in Latin. It had seemed strange to Harun, he himself being a learned linguist understanding more than 5 languages, when he first had arrived in this country, to discover that the pastor of the people preached the principles of their faith to them in a language of which none of them understood a word.

By now he had gotten used to this absurdity of the human mind, not too big an absurdity even, when compared with some of the others loose out there in the world. He also had gotten used to the fact that, how deeply moved the village people might be by what was said, you can only be deeply moved by something you don’t understand for a certain amount of time – somewhere between 5 and 10 minutes – before boredom takes over. This was not different even in this special case, and so, after a small stretch of awed silence, whispered conversation ensued while the priest preached on.

Harun pricked his ears at the sound of the first whisperings, only just audible beneath the Father’s loud preaching. He had patiently anticipated the right time, and now he knew it had come. He almost felt through his hood the peasant beside him turning his head, so as to look at the devout pilgrim, not a noble priest, but a common man like himself, but nevertheless a man of god. A man to whom one could talk about his troubles, even if one could get no answer.

“Reverend pilgrim…” he began.

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So that was it :) Nice Cliffhanger, ey? Please give me feedback on what you think of it, and of Harun's latest investigation methods, either here or on facebook via the external link :)

Kind Regards

Robert