For Harun, the next day could hardly have started better. After having been allowed to sleep blissfully long for a change – Wenzel having fended off all of Jan’s attempts to rouse him early – he was welcomed into the day by the wonderful smell of freshly grilled salmon. Wenzel the clever fellow had caught 8 of them the previous evening and had stowed away half of his haul. While Harun ate, Wenzel could be seen disappearing into the direction of the river. And the way he winked when he returned nurtured in Harun hopes of further nurturing.

The rest of the day, however, did not live up to its promising beginning. For although it was certainly not as hectic, this day of their journey proved to be quite as uneventful as the last one. Harun got off one or two quite promising starts of conversation with Wenzel, but sooner or later they were interrupted by Jan, who seemingly deemed it his duty to drop his usual taciturnity in order to save his fellow Christian Wenzel from the peril of a Saracen’s no doubt heretically infectious fabulations. This left little to do for Harun to pass the time and over the next few exceedingly long hours, Jan's interruptions provided him with a deeper insight into the subject of horse manure than he would ever have liked to acquire. Obviously, once he had got going, Jan was not the man to be stopped his detailed lectures.

Only near sundown was he finally silenced, when a crying woman with bleeding child in her arms passed them on the road.

*~*~*~*~*

None of the four people on the wagon was quick enough to realize what passed them before it already had passed – except Harun. He was down from the wagon in a flash, quite surprising from a man who was normally more accustomed to move like an overweight stork. Wenzel, the guard, who should have seen enough wounds and suffering before to register immediately what was wrong with the child just stared after his friend, gave a shout and only then realized what had made him jump down.

“Good woman, stop.” Panting, Harun reached the woman, who did stop, more out of surprise than anything. “Is your child hurt? What happened to you? Is your child hurt? Let me see. Maybe I will be able to do something.”

The woman… no, she was hardly more than a girl, Harun saw now, in tattered peasant's clothing. She opened and shut her mouth, not getting any words out. Her eyes were wide with terror.

Harun nodded to himself understandingly. He had seen eyes like that before, years ago, when the invaders had come, taken his town and made him a slave. He knew the things those girl's eyes must have seen – things in the guise of men who came out of the morning mist and destroyed the world you had known, taking lives, taking honor, taking everything.

Harun smiled reassuringly at the woman. From the state of her, it looked like she had hardly escaped alive. She must be terrified by whatever had happened to her.

That indeed was part of the girl’s problems. What Harun fortunately did not know, was that the rest of it: after just having her home burned, the woman now saw before her this horrible, dark-skinned, heathen monster, leering at her, threatening her child.

“What the hell are you doing?” Yelled the bondsman. “Get back here! You’re holding us up!”

Jan said nothing. He would probably have been quite content to continue his journey without the additional unnecessary load.

“Come back,” called the bondsman. “What on earth is the matter?” He jumped off the wagon and hurried towards Harun. “Come back, this has nothing to do…” His gaze fell on the woman and her wounded child. “God’s breath!”

Harun took a step forward and looked, in the glaring red glow of the sinking sun, at the stains of darker red on the child’s shoulder. They were not damp anymore but dry and rust-colored. Nevertheless, through the cut cloth, one saw the gashes going deep, and the white bone glaring. No. The bondsman was not right. Whoever's breath had caused this, it was no heavenly creature. More likely the exact opposite.

“Give him to me,” he addressed himself gently to the woman. “I know something of medicine. Perhaps I can help him.”

Still, the woman did not move, did not speak, but clutched her child even tighter to her.

Harun tried to read her expression, but in the reddish half-light of the setting sun, this was impossible. The scribe heard fast footsteps behind him. The footsteps of a man who managed to drag his feet even when running.

“Wenzel?” he asked, without looking around. “Can you help me with this?”

“Aye, I think so. If you’d step behind the wagon for a minute or two…”

“Behind the wagon? Wenzel, the child needs help!”

“Aye, it does. And so that it gets the help as quick as possible, would you just step behind the wagon for a while? Out of sight?”

Harun got the hint. He didn’t exactly know what the hint was supposed to be hinting, but he knew Wenzel long enough to know that the guard was no fool. By non-intellectual standards, anyway.

He hid behind the cart and felt extremely stupid, just standing there. But only minutes later, there was work for him to be done. Wenzel came around the cart, with a bloody bundle in his arms.

“You’ll have to be quick,” he said, placing it on the rough board behind the horse-behind. “I’ve only managed to make her let go after I told here there was a priest hereabouts living in a hermitage, who made a vow never again to let another woman into his sight, but who would be perfectly willing to perform the last rites for the poor mite.”

“The last rites?” Harun raised a questioning eyebrow. “He doesn't look that bad.” The scribe bent forward to study the child's shoulder more closely.

“Aye, but she doesn’t know that. Now get to work, the last rites don’t take that long.”

“I… I can’t work like that.”

“Like what?”

“Without any… any….oh I don’t know the word for all the instruments in Theudisc! I need… get me water! That'll be a start.”

“Water.” Wenzel looked around him at the muddy pools and puddles both sides of the street. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Clean water, Wenzel.”

“Oh. Well, that is a problem. I’ll do the best I can. What else do you need?”

Harun thought, in deep concentration. “A piece of cloth. Not anything of yours, it must be clean. And a piece of red-hot iron.”

Wenzel stared at him.

“You know,” he said, after a long pause, “I’m beginning to have my doubts about you. A piece of red-hot iron? What on earth do you plan to do with the child? If it’s some cruel heathen…”

The look from Harun’s normally so friendly gold-brown eyes stopped him mid-sentence.

“All right. A nice piece of red-hot, glowing iron. I’ll best light two fires. One for the woman to warm herself at, and one on the other side of the wagon so she doesn’t see what I’m up to. God knows what you need it for. Will… will there be screaming?”

The question came almost hesitantly, apologetically, as if the poser thought he knew he wad doing his friend an injustice.

“Why yes, certainly,” answered the scribe. “Now get going, will you?”

The guard stared at him, uncomprehending. “If I didn’t know you so well…” he began – then he stopped, shook his head and turned around, to go in search of dry wood and clean puddles.

*~*~*~*~*

While he heard the crackling flames of the first fire light up and could not hep but admire his friend for getting a fire going even in this marsh-like dump, Harun undid the knot with which the child’s torn clothing had been tied together over its tiny breast. There, at least, was a grace of Allah: his patient was too young to object to the origin of his approaching cure, too young to know anything of Saracens and Christians, and those lucky souls who managed to keep out of both camps.

The child's eyes were closed in an uneasy sleep. Probably the last few days had been too tiring even to wake in this uncomfortable, cold surroundings. Harun was glad for it. His patient would have cause to cry soon enough anyway.

He looked at the wound. Strangely, he did not feel sick. He had in the chapel when looking at Lukas' wound, but that had been a dead man, bereft of his life before it was due time, silently crying out the guilt of his killers. This here was a life still, a life which could rest, recover and grow again in the living world. This was nothing to fear.

Wenzel came. In his hand, he held his own personal leather drinking cup, which now was probably cleaner than it had been in weeks, filled to the brim with wonderfully clear water.

“I stumbled on a little stream, down yonder,” he panted. “Stumbled is the very word, mind you. Nearly fell into the damn thing. Now is that clear enough?”

“It will do,” Harun said, and as he took a look at Wenzel’s sweaty face, he added: “…very well.”

“That’s good. Very good.” Still panting, the guard sank against the side of the wagon, while Harun did his best to find a strap of cloth he could tear from his clothing without it endangering his dignified appearance.

“What about the woman?” he asked.

“Oh, she’s fine. As fine as a girl can be who’s just had her home burned and her family slaughtered.”

“Raiders?”

“Aye.” The guard gave Harun a questioning gaze through narrowed eyes. “The fact doesn’t seem to surprise you.”

“Is it so surprising? You yourself told me that people like that were… active in these parts.”

“Yea, but doesn’t mean I thought you’d take me that seriously. You were on the lookout all the time, weren't you? All the time while Jan was boring us silly with his speeches about horse dung! The way you spotted the blood on the child in the evening gloom… And to think that I always thought you were the most inexperienced, unworldly bookworm on God’s good earth.”

“I am, generally speaking,” said Harun, taking care to choose his words. “But I also once fell into the hands of slave traders.”

“Oh.”

“That makes you more cautious than the average person.”

“I… I suppose it would.”

“Now let’s look at you,” Harun said and carefully sprinkled some water over the part of the child’s cloth which was sticking to the bloody shoulder. The blood-encrusted fabric became flexible once again and he managed to remove it without waking the child. Then he turned around to find Wenzel still standing there.

“What are you waiting for? Get me my hot piece of iron, will you?”

“Yes. Of course.”

The guard hurried off.

When Wenzel was gone, Harun closed his eyes. Desperately, he tried to remember everything he had ever read about medicine. Unluckily for him, he had read a gigantic pile of books on the subject as on every other subject, all by different scholars with differing opinions. Normally, there was nothing to say against learned people arguing their differing views. It was a tried and tested system to arrive at the best possible answers. But If you were about to fiddle around with live people’s bodies, you suddenly realized that you wanted to be damn sure of what to do with which part and especially what not to do with them, and you had little inclination towards a scholastic debate on the subject.

Wenzel returned. In his right hand he held his dagger, the tip of which was emanating a faint, evil red glow.

“Here.” He handed the dagger to Harun. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I hope so too. Now go and look after the girl, will you? Prevent her from running here.”

“Is she likely to try that? How should she know her child’s here? I told her that her child is at a hermitage in…”

“She will now, trust me. Keep an eye on her for me. And both hands, tight.”

*~*~*~*~*

A torturous, high-pitched scream pierced the night.

“What was that?” The head of the peasant girl jerked up. “My boy! What have you done to my boy?”

Wenzel shifted. He didn’t like to say ‘nothing’ as he himself was not altogether sure about what was happening at the moment. But he was sure that something was indeed happening, and something not too nice at that. He fell back on an old and trusted method of answering awkward questions: not answering them.

“Relax. Everything is going to be all right,” he said, and fervently hoped so.

Mothers of all ages however have an uncanny talent for seeing through rhetoric when their children are being discussed.

“Answer me! What have you done with him? Do you to want to rob us? We have nothing left, I promise, we…”

“No, I don’t want to rob you.”

“Then what was that scream?”

“Perhaps it wasn’t your son at all,” Wenzel suggested. “Perhaps…yes, perhaps there are still raiders about and the scream came from some nearby holding.”

This worked. The resurgent fear in the woman’s eyes as she looked around her told him that everything else had been driven from her mind.

“Do you think so?” she whispered. “I ain’t sure if there’s anyone living in these parts, you know. I just ran, and ran, and didn’t know how fast or far.”

“What happened to you, exactly?” Asked Wenzel, working with the strategy that you needed a big horror to distract from a possibly even bigger one.

The glow from the flames glittered on the girl’s face. The guard realized she was in tears. Shivering, she drew closer to him – a movement at which he noticeably stiffened.

“They came, just as the sun was going down,” she whispered. “Only shapes, at first, before the sinking sun, you didn’t rightly see the torches and axes and spears in their hands. Our dog knew, though. He barked like the whips of hell were driving him. And then, when father went out to ask what they wanted, they just went at him and slit his throat.”

“The dog’s?” He asked.

“No. My f-father's….”

She began to sob, and leaned against him.

“Oh. Sorry,” he said, meekly.

“D- don’t be. You.. you’ve all been so kind… and…to me… a stranger, too…”

Jan, who had been silently sitting opposite them, behind the tongues of flame licking the sky, snorted. He got up.

“We had best make for Danzig quickly,” he said. “If the story this wench is telling is true, we are still in danger, even here, behind both arms of the river and a well-guarded bridge. Once you have… separated yourself from her, and collected Milord’s heathen villein, we must be away.”

“We’ll leave, when we’ve finished here,” retorted Wenzel, angrily. “My God, man, can’t you see that we can’t just leave her here?”

“It’s no business of mine nor yours to see her avenged or care for her. Her family must do so. That is the law.”

Wenzel thought of what Harun had taught him, and felt his blood rising. “Well, in case you haven’t noticed,” he said, his voice as cold as the fire was hot, “it just so happens that she hasn’t any left.”

This was rewarded with a renewed series of wails from the girl. Wenzel felt a stab of guilt. Perhaps it had been a bit insensitive. He patted her on the head again, which seemed to do all right as a remedy.

“As you wish.” Jan’s voice was no less cool. “It’s you who’s the man-at-arms here, and responsible for our safety.”

The driver stomped away. Or rather splashed, for the ground was getting ever more muddy. It had begun to drizzle. Wenzel had not noticed it up until then. He drew the peasant girl closer to him, for warmth. He had to care for her, after all, and didn’t that include making sure that she didn’t catch a cold?

“You’ve been so good to me,” she repeated in a small voice. “But your friend’s right.”

“He isn’t my friend. He’s just the wagon driver,” Wenzel hastened to clarify.

“He’s right. You should leave for safety and forget about me. I’ll find a safe place. I’ve managed this far, haven’t I?”

“Don’t even think of something like that,” Wenzel reproved. “We can’t just leave you out here.” He groped for the next thing that came to mind. “It… is a Christian commandment to act charitable.” He strained his mind to remember more of Sir Christian’s standard twaddle. “We… must care… for the poor and unfortunate… for they are the…true followers… of Christ.”

“Are we?”

“Of course you are! You’ve just had your home burned down. How can anyone be poorer and more unfortunate that that?”

The reminder contained in this argument didn’t serve to cheer the girl up much. Wenzel drew his old, cracked leather cloak around her and sent an unconventional but fervent prayer to heaven to make Harun hurry up.

*~*~*~*~*

Regardless of whom it had reached up there, Wenzel’s prayer seemed to have had the desired effect. Harun emerged from behind the wagon, the child in his arms.

“The priest from the hermitage just left so as not to accidentally meet any females,” he said, loudly. “He has not only performed the last rites, but also mended the child’s wounds so well that the last rites wouldn't have been necessary.” Quietly, he added, “And damn inconsistent of him it was, too. He could have saved himself a lot of work if he’d thought of doing it the other way round.” His voice rose again. “Here is your child, my dear girl, and perfectly whole again.”

“Go on,” Wenzel whispered, as they rose, and he saw the fear of the unknown in the girl’s eyes again. “He’s perfectly harmless. He is just a scribe at the castle of my lord. He is a Saracen, but he won't do you any harm. In fact he couldn’t, I think, even if he wanted to.”

The happy sight of her child, no longer bloodstained, helped the girl to overcome her fear. She stepped nearer and took the boy. Then she sniffed, and frowned.

“Why… why is he smelling of roast beef?”

Harun had an answer ready.

“The priest had to burn out the evil demons in his wounds with the sanctuary lamp from his little chapel. The heat drove all evil out and saved your son.”

“What marvel,” exclaimed Wenzel, eying Harun suspiciously. “I’d never have thought that a simple country priest could do such things.”

“Me too,” said Harun, avoiding his friend’s gaze diplomatically.

“And I ain’t even had a chance to thank him,” the girl sighed.

“Oh, I suspect he knows how thankful you are,” Wenzel assured her. “And now that your son’s cared for, we’ll best follow the advice of our surly friend and take off. I’ll feel a whole lot better when the walls of Danzig are between me and these raiders.”

“Then I must thank you and bid you farewell,” the girl said, again, tears in her eyes.

“Of course not,” declared Harun. “You’re coming with us.”

“But…”

“You are the sole surviving witness of the attack, are you not? So you must bear witness of it to our lord, who will be the better informed if he knew of the raider’s movements, and the better able to protect his land.”

It was a carefully constructed argument with at least three holes in it – for example, the girl would hardly be able give exact information about the raider's movements if she was running from them for her life – but none of those holes were so obvious as to be spotted by a distraught peasant girl wishing nothing more than see herself and her child safe. As Wenzel helped the girl onto the wagon and she smiled down at him, Harun smiled too. He had not been so busy behind the wagon that he couldn’t eavesdrop with both ears wide open and mind at work.

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I thought the book could use a bitt of romance and excitement :) What do you think?

As always, I'm eager for any comments / votes / fans, or feedback on my facebook page, which is ( I think I have actually mentioned this before ) to be reached by clicking on the external link under the cover.

Cheers ;)

Robert