The next morning, Harun was for once not awakened by the cockcrow. He was not overtly thankful for it, however. The only reason he wasn't awakened at five in the morning by the ghastly animal was that he hadn't slept during the night at all. Barrels of pitch do not make a very comfortable bed, especially when the barrel next to you happens to be occupied by a snoring soldier who long ago had learned to sleep in all kinds of circumstances.

Sir Christian and Father Ignatius had continued their discussion on the works of countless clerics seemingly forever, and when they finally finished, the Father’s voice increasingly sounding tired irritated, Sir Christian had insisted on taking out his pilgrim’s robes and showing them to the good Father. And why not try them on if one was already at it? It had continued long into the night, by which time Harun had not the strength to get up and drag himself to his room.

The next morning, when he had heard Sir Christian leave, he got up himself and followed. Eyelids drooping, head bent low, trotted down the stairs. He did not wake Wenzel. He just could not bear at this moment for someone to wake up, yawn and ask him whether he had slept well.

Slowly he made his way to the main hall. There his usual breakfast already waited. Not a particularly delicious but enough for him to be able to stand straight and especially think straight again. He needed his wits about him now.

Wenzel had not at all been forthcoming regarding his part in gathering evidence to prove that one of his best friends was guilty of murder, though Harun had argued with him long into the night. The scribe would have to do most of the work himself. Not only most of it, but the dangerous bits as well, and that was especially vexing. Intellectuals like himself should not have to put life and limb at risk – they were there for thinking up ingenious plans and other people with less brains should put them into practice. But Wenzel did not seem to share this opinion.

At the breakfast table, the matters of Lukas the corpse and Henrik the convicted murderer-to-be were driven out of his mind with abrupt and overwhelming fervor. Sir Christian had seemingly used up his reserves of grieve thoroughly in the past few days over a series of masses and a fine funeral, and was now determined to return to his usual routine. A fact not altogether congenial to Harun, for this routine consisted mostly of instructing his scribe to copy lengthy, long-winded texts about the Christian faith in general and the nature of the Almighty in particular.

Harun had never been able to divine whether this was just part of Sir Christian’s general obsession with devotion, or whether it was his way of trying to convince Harun of swapping gods at last. If that was the object of the religious writing sessions, they had failed utterly, for nothing could make the Christian faith seem less appetizing to Harun than having to copy complicated discussions on whether one God was one God or three or one in three or a dual concept in conflict with the devil or maybe something entirely different, totally beyond human comprehension. If anything, Harun would have been inclined towards the last opinion, since it would have eliminated any need for him to write about the subject ever again.

Today, there was an additional religious irritation, for Sir Christian was full of the news of the devout pilgrim who had visited the burial of Lukas the day before and had been such an inspiration to everybody. Harun bent his head low over his gruel bowl, shoveled gruel into his mouth industriously, in the hope that the embarrassment on his face would remain unnoticed. When Sir Christian, for about the seventh time, was saying: “You should have seen him, Harun – kneeling there and praying with such a devotion that St. Augustine himself could not have surpassed him,” Harun was more than a little exasperated. Yet there were also occasions at which his sense of humor was provoked, at remarks such as “The perfect Christian – I will forever live after his example” or “If only you were to decide on that holy path and become like him.”

In the end, the praise of the disguise-pilfering pilgrim ceased, and Sir Christian got up.

“As is my duty as a Christian, I shall now attend Morning Mass,” he declared and looked invitingly at Harun – who shook his head.

“Of course every one of us must choose his own way,” Sir Christian added mournfully, and left.

Once Sir Christian and the rest of Father Ignatius' flock were out of the hall and out of sight, Harun went to the Scriptorium. The lord of the castle always took his time when he was with his God, but even one of Father Ignatius extended morning services would not be lengthy enough for what Harun would have to do regarding the mystery of Lukas' death. Better go to the Scriptorium and prepare everything for his work as a scribe, it would be over the quicker for it. And he could think while he arranged his parchments; Harun needed to think.

When best to put his plans into action?

He reached the door of the Scriptorium. The well-known odor of dust and ink greeted him. It was comforting like an old friend, and one who didn’t argue or snore to boot. He often wished that he had not only the smell of books to comfort him. He liked reading – he could hardly have risen to his current profession had that not been the case – for he found it very stimulating. But as with everything in life, there were exceptions. And in this case, the exceptions filled a full six bookshelves at the wall of the scriptorium. If Sir Christian’s favorite theologian books, the only kind of writings he ever spent money on, could be said to be stimulating, it would only be to one's sleep requirement.

When best to act? Well, in the evening, obviously. Then, every man of some standing in the village would be off to the tavern, Henrik too this time, now that he had nothing sinister to do on his evenings off.

Harun selected several of the books from the shelves. His sessions with Sir Christian followed a basic pattern which seldom changed. Sir Christian, having instructed Harun to buy in the city a precious volume of writing from or about his latest favorite saint, would on the scribe's return pester him with question about this particular work and make him read from it. If there was no new book available, Harun would be instructed to read from one of Sir Christian’s all-time favorites.

Harun had on his own initiative, perhaps as a kind of self-defense measure, started to teach Sir Christian his letters so that he would be able to read for himself, a measure which met with considerable enthusiasm – each time Harun repeated it unsuccessfully. Equal to Sir Christian's fervor and faith was only his forgetfulness on any matter that was not utterly religious. Something as down-to-earth as 24 signs aligned in different order so as to produce all kinds of words was easily mastered, and even more easily forgotten. Harun knew of course that people who did not learn their letters at a young age had often difficulty of remembering everything, but judging from Sir Christian’s memory capacity, he would have had to be about nine hundred and seventy-four years of age.

While everybody would be busy drinking in the tavern, yes. Then, when the dark came, go down into the village – that had worked once before, hadn’t it? And in the village, there were no trees to confuse his sense of direction. How to find the smith’s house? He would have to ask Wenzel. His friend would surely not object to giving him such a small, insignificant piece of information. And then… one would have to see.

The only pleasure Harun ever got from his attempts at alphabetization lay in the fact that Sir Christian often tried to make use of what he had learned when he was closeted with the good Father Ignatius, studying religious texts. Always these sessions lasted for hours. But the length of these devotional labors was not so much determined by religious fervor as by Sir Christian's incredibly incompetent reading, which the father was too hypocritical to find fault with. It could be enormously pleasurable to listen to him trying to find anything good to say about it.

And once he was at the smith's house – how to get in? Especially how to get in unseen? There was sure to be someone there. Nobody would leave his house alone in these unsettled times, with rumors of bandits spreading up and down the country. Well, he would have to cross that bridge when he came to it.

One by one, Harun carried the selected books to a board nailed to the side of the slanting wooden surface of his desk, comfortable for writing, but less so for storing things. That took some time.

What if he found what he was looking for? Was he actually going to go through with it? Accuse Henrik of the murder? It dawned on him with a sudden sense of horror that if he achieved all he hoped for, a man might die, and he might be the cause. Yes, the man would be a murderer himself, but did that justify his, Harun’s, acts? The smith had looked a decent enough fellow. Perhaps he had had good reasons for disposing of Lukas. Should one not let it just go? Wenzel could be right. What concern of Harun’s was it if some peasant was killed, if some murderer got away without punishment. There were many guilty people running around on Allah’s earth, and he did not seem to mind.

Harun stroked the rough leather covers of the books. It was comforting but also saddening. How was it that something looking that promising on the outside could contain such long-winded piles of pointlessness? It really was a shame, when the parchment could equally well have been used to record a treatise on medicine, or a work of ancient history, or poetry, or philosophy. Harun had never been able to persuade Sir Christian to buy such a book.

But what he had been able to do was to take advantage of the stinginess of his contemporaries. Sometimes books contained more than one would have thought on first sight.

He took up one of the books and smiled. Ah, yes. This was one of the books with a lot of stinginess. A book with hidden potential – just what he needed now. He sat down, began to read, and was stimulated.

*~*~*~*~*

It was some time before the faint singing from the castle chapel faded, and the steps of Sir Christian could be heard approaching the Scriptorium. Harun was so captivated by his reading that he did not hear him enter. Only when Sir Christian bent forward to examine the letters on the cover Harun was reading, and gave a surprised but very pleased sound, did Harun come to realize his presence. Hurriedly, he pressed the book to his chest.

“Now, now,” said Sir Christian warmly, “why this guilty face, my dear scribe? This is not at all something to be ashamed of. On the contrary – to find you, reading the psalms, I never would have thought you had it in you. And I always imagined you found our biblical studies somewhat tedious.”

“H- how could you ever have thought that, Milord?” muttered Harun, closed the book under the psalms of which, on the re-used parchment, a number of fragments from Ovid’s ancient poem The Art of Love were just readable, and stuffed it at the very bottom of the pile of books, where Sir Christian was hopefully never likely to discover it.

“Why put it away? Should we not pursue your studies further?”

Oh, no we should not. The meaning of some words in this particular text Harun imagined, such as Amor, could be miraculously clear even to an illiterate who did not understand one word of Latin.

“If you do not object, Milord, I would rather suggest this volume,” he said and held up one of the other books hastily. “I… ehm.. have been only reading the other one to pass the time, so as to be able to enjoy this one together with you.”

“My dear scribe, I am very touched. So these holy books begin to give you pleasure at last?”

“Yes Milord, some of them certainly do.”

“Wonderful! Let us begin right away.”

And they did. Sir Christian sat down in his usual hard, straight-backed, wooden chair next to the window, exactly in the line of the draft Harun always avoided. But why not, after all it came from God, didn’t it? Harun, for his part, leaned back in his chair against the straw-filled sackcloth cushion he had made himself from an old sack of horse fodder. The cushion was something else Sir Christian didn’t now about. Surely it was not quite as immoral as certain other of Harun’s little secrets, but one never knew with Sir Christian.

Harun looked at the cover of the book he had taken up, and his heart sank. Not so much because of the quality of the book – there were much more terrifying writings on Sir Christian’s favorite bookshelf – but rather because of the fact that whatever good qualities a book might possess, if you read it to often, you will end up getting sick of it and chucking it out of the window. And from this particular volume Harun had read very, very, very, very, very often.

“Today,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm, “I will read you from the bible.”

“Aah,” sighed Sir Christian. “The holy word of God.”

Harun, since he could not very well agree with that, thought it best to hold his tongue and instead suggested a paragraph at random.

“I will read from the Second Book of Samuel, from the prayer of David,” he said. And he began.

“He has led me far away from my homeland, and he has set me free, for he favored me…”

Harun smiled. That almost sounded like himself.

“The Lord has done well unto me, since I am just and my hands are unsoiled, for I kept to the ways of the Lord and do not turn aside dastardly away from my own, true God.”

Harun's smile disappeared. This was getting strange Could it be… but no. Surely Allah, the one, true, only God would not send messages of grace to a not altogether devout believer such as himself through the false and totally abominable book of another religion?

Sir Christian, it seemed, had not noticed anything peculiar about the passage. And why should he, if this message was intended for Harun, to guide him on his way? But that could not be, no, Allah would not send a sign in thus strange a way…

“Yea, I have his commandments in my sight, never once turn aside from his laws. I was without stain in his eyes and was wary of sin. Therefore, the Lord has done good unto me, for I was ever just and unstained in his eyes. Unto the righteous, you show righteousness, unto the devout, you show devotion, unto the pure, you show purity, yet unto the wicked...” Harun's voice faltered, and it took him a moment to start reading again. “unto the wicked you show wrath.”

Harun continued his reading while the sun outside climbed up and down, and the light slowly dimmed. It did not contain any more revelations. He was thankful for it, he had got quite enough for one day already. When the light was failing, Sir Christian got up and smiled joyfully, as though he had not just sat on a hard, cold chair for 5 hours at a time.

“That was wonderfully read, my dear scribe. And I must say, you sounded as though you were genuinely touched by the word of God.”

“I was, yes,” Harun answered, absent-mindedly.

“Has then the day finally come? Are you ready to become a believer of the one, true faith?”

“I have been for some time.”

Sir Christian was in rapture. “Then come! I will bring you the chapel for your baptism.”

“Have been a believer of the one, true, faith, I mean.”

At that, Sir Christian looked no longer in raptures, but rather sad. Harun had pity on his poor lord. Not the one up in the heavens, but right down here.

“Should you not better go, Milord?” he asked. “Otherwise you might be late for supper, and that might make you late for evening Mass.”

The mere thought drove everything else out of Sir Christian’s mind. “Dear me, you are right. I must hurry. Until next time, Harun, and thank you. Excellent reading, really excellent. Excuse me.”

Sir Christian vanished through the door to the spiral staircase. Harun listened to his slowly fading footsteps. Then he got up, gathered all the books together and tried to lift the pile. A painful stabbing sensation in his back made him stop trying. He let go of the pile of books, and tried to straighten himself. He yelped in pain and stopped trying that too.

This was an excellent example of the work intellectuals should not have to do. The weight of wisdom could be terrible sometimes. Careful to rest on the desk all the time, Harun managed to sit down and arrange his dorsal vertebra in a straight line again.

He was thinking all the time. Thinking about what he had just experienced, and what he had to do next. He would have to go through with this business. No mercy for the wicked. He had gone this far, there was no shirking back now. He had set himself a task, and he had discovered that it was an honorable, necessary task. Nobody else was there to do it.

So he had to.

Cautiously, he got up. One by one he put the books back into their proper places, and then left the Scriptorium for supper. He would need all his strength for his nightly excursion.

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For the non-historians among my readers: this over-writing of already used parchment which is referred to in this chapter actually existed. Because parchment was so expensive, medieval monks used to scratch antique roman texts from old books and fill them with religious writings :-) Such a manuscript is called palimpsest!

Hope you didn't mind the little lecture. That was the historian-to-be in me breaking through ;)  Hopfeully you enjoyed the chapter, and as always, I'm looking forward to your votes & comments!

Kind Regards

Robert

P.S: as always you can reach my facebook page via the external link :)