The wagon arrived back at Sevenport a few days later, without any more adventurous episodes. The return to their home however became something of an event in itself – mostly, Harun suspected, because of Edith: When traveling far through brigand-infested lands, it is no uncommon fate to return one man short, to arrive one woman up however was something of a novelty, and especially so in a village in which you could count the number of interesting news on the fingers of an unsuccessful Arabian thief.

Not only the castle maids and servants but also people from the village crowded around the wagon, pelting them with questions about where they had been, who this girl was, where she had come from, and why the heck she was wearing a curtain.

“Please, be quiet for a minute, will you?” Wenzel made himself heard over the chatter at last. “I can’t very well tell you anything if you go on babbling like that. My friends, this is Edith. Edith, these are…well, some people, anyway. We picked Edith up on the way, she was running away from raiders… yes, that is a child she is carrying and not a supply of gold-trimmed embroidery. No, I don’t know whether the raiders are heading this way. We brought Edith along so she can tell Sir Christian about the raiders. Now will you please get out of the way? We’ve all had a trying time and would like to get to bed as quickly as possible.”

The crowd parted to let them through. Wenzel helped Edith, who was still carrying her boy, down from the wagon, and led her through the lines of staring people. Harun hurried after them. He was still a bit miffed with Wenzel, but what of it. Better follow the man and keep an eye on what passed now.

Wenzel entered the castle, servants, maids and other guards following him like the tail of a comet. They approached the chapel, for it was the time of evening mass. Harun reflected for a moment on the fact that more than three quarters of the inhabitants of the castle had interrupted the communion with their God to see a girl in a curtain arrive. Interesting.

Of course Sir Christian was among the quarter who had remained.

Wenzel stopped, squinting through the crack in the chapel door which stood a little bit ajar. There was the lord of the castle, standing right in front of the rest of the congregation, his gaze fixed upon the back of Father Ignatius, who was standing behind the wooden enclosure surrounding the altar, hardly visible in the thick fumes of incense surrounding him. Wenzel waited outside, obviously thinking interrupting the good Father might make him incensed inwardly as well as outside, and in a not really very holy way.

There was singing from inside.

“We’ll have to wait,” Wenzel whispered to Edith.

“Of course,” she said. “We can’t interrupt the holy mass. I only wish I could join in.”

“Then why don’t you?”

All heads turned to Harun. They could not have looked more surprised if the remark had come from a headless tap-dancing badger.

“Yes, why don’t you,” repeated Harun. “You…um…surely want to give thanks to your go…to the lord for your safe delivery.”

And impress on Sir Christian with your poor, pitiable piety into the bargain, my girl. That would make him feel very sympathetic to you and might improve your current desperate situation. Think ahead, girl, think ahead!

“Aye, but won’t I disturb them?”

“No devout soul seeking communion with her God from the gracious hand of a priest could ever disturb others of like mind.” Only after a few seconds of silence following this remark, Harun realized that it might be deemed a bit odd, considering its origin. “At least that’s what I’ve heard,” he added.

That decided the matter. The girl nodded bravely, and pushed open the door. Sudden silence fell over the chapel. Harun supposed that someone entering during the service was a much rarer occasion than someone leaving.

The scribe stepped beside Wenzel.

“What are you waiting for?” he hissed. “Go after her!”

“What, do you really think it proper to…”

“No, of course it isn't. Do it anyway!”

“Aye…um…thanks.”

The guard hurried into the chapel.

*~*~*~*~*

Naturally, Harun did not go after him. But he did remain outside the door. Harun was perfectly well aware, maybe even more than the girl herself, of Edith's vulnerable situation. He was also aware of the fact that Wenzel couldn't take his eyes off the girl, and was determined to do all he could for the two of them.

So he lay in wait for his victims in a small niche beside the chapel door. All he could hear from within the chapel after Mass ended was a faint indiscernible murmur, neither Sir Christian, nor Edith nor Wenzel for that matter left the chapel for a considerable period of time. Only Father Ignatius, as Harun noted with a satisfaction, did not seem very interested in the affair and left soon, with most of his flock following him soon after.

While waiting, Harun got sleepy. The day had been hard and trying work. Well, he had been sitting on his backside all day, yes, but as the work of the scribe mostly consisted of sitting on your backside all day, for him, that could well be counted as a hard day’s work – especially since the wagon was far harder to sit on than the chair in the scriptorium.

There was tiring work ahead, too. Soon, Harun would have to turn his mind back on the matter of Lukas’ death, and now there was this additional job… having to arrange the lives of people who weren’t clever enough to recognize that they were in lo...

The chapel door creaked, and Harun's half-closed eyes snapped open.

“…am most grateful to you, Edith,” Sir Christian was saying, stepping out. “I shall strengthen the guards on the gates again, and send patrols down into the village at night.”

Patrols into the village? No you dumb caring clodpoole, that would block any way for me to get into the smithy at night.

“Or maybe I had better post them on the edges of the village.”

Yes, that would be much better.

“Is there anywhere my people can conduct you? When do you wish to leave?”

What?

Harun saw Wenzel and Edith throw each other an anxious look.

“Excuse me, Mirlord…” He detached himself from the wall, trying to shake off the remains of drowsiness. These two had not even managed to get a simple pestering and pleading across. Unbelievable. “I must speak. It has just occurred to me what a Christian act it might be to offer hospitality to this poor, pious girl.”

It was a pity one could not make her a poor, pious virgin – that would have been even better. But the counterargument to that was sitting on her arm, and by the look of him would make himself heard all right before too long. What Harun had said seemed to suffice, though. Sir Christian nodded at his scribe approvingly.

“Yes of course, Harun, you are right. What have I been thinking? Will you allow me to put you up for the night? In the morning, we can still make the necessary arrangements to conduct you wherever you wish.”

“It has also occurred to me,” Harup pressed on, “that she, having lost her entire family as she has surely mentioned, might not have anywhere to go to. So would it not be a Christian act also to offer her a position among your castle staff? She could be useful, I believe, for I recently heard the cook’s wife complain of the heavy work load.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes Milord.”

It was true enough. Harun had heard her say word-for-word right before his departure: “Oh my creakin’ back’s getting too old for this. If I’d only married a proper man, I wouldn’t have to scrub and scour all day and my hands wouldn’t be so sore. Heaven, ain’t the bread ready yet? Some time soon that old oven’ll fall apart and collapse make no mistake. And is the old bastard going to do anything about it? No, it’s up to the likes of me, as usual. As if I hadn’t better things to do, and him stewed, snoring in bed all day long, and all night more’s the pity. And what’s the good me speaking my mind, he’ll not listen, he never does. Oh, my old back, if I’d only somebody to help me.”

That she made the same speech about twice every hour he thought a small detail with negligible relevance for the current subject.

“Would you like to stay, girl?” Sir Christian asked, in a manner so kind, Harun could certainly not have managed it.

Edith cheeks turned red.

“I could hardly dare to presume to ask, Milord.”

“That is all right. Now speak your mind. Would you like to stay?”

The girl threw a sidelong glance at Wenzel, which Harun noticed, although Sir Christian certainly didn’t. Neither did he remark that the two of them were holding hands.

Edith dipped her head. “Aye, Milord. I’d very much like that, if your Lordship allows.”

“Then that is settled,” Sir Christian declared. “Harun, will you conduct Edith to the cook’s wife?

“I think Wenzel had better do that, Milord. I, um… have to sort out my purchases from Danzig. If that is not putting you out, Wenzel.”

The grubby guard gave Harun a broad grin. “I think I can manage.”

“Well then, if you will excuse me…”

He hurried off, contemplating how the cook's wife, known for her oh so cheerful temper, would express her delight about her unexpected help. Hmm. Had he bestowed too harsh a fate on the girl? He thought of the raiders, out there in the dark, and decided that probably he hadn't. Well, maybe. If the cook's wife was in a good mood.

*~*~*~*~*

When both the scribe and Sir Christian were gone and Wenzel and Edith remained alone before the chapel door, an embarrassed silence fell. One question remained – the most difficult of all. Wenzel had not asked it until now, to do him justice, it had only just occurred to him.

He stepped closer and nodded towards the boy in Edith’s arms.

“What about his father?” he asked.

Edith hung her head. “He’s dead,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry,” Wenzel said, and really tried to be. But it was rather difficult.

“Well, that’s behind me now, anyway,” she said in a small voice. “I’ll have to make the best of it. For Walter’s sake.”

That sounded more encouraging.

“Is that your boy's name?” He asked.

“Aye.”

Wenzel eyed the small face between the curtain folds curiously. The little eyes stared just as curiously back up at him.

The guard scratched his rough chin.

“Quiet little beggar, ain’t he?”

Edith smiled. “He isn't normally. It must be your good influence.”

“D’you really think so?”

“Aye, I do. Usually he’s shouting himself hoarse all the time.”

“Well, I can’t say I’ve had much experience with tots…”

“You’ll get along famously, you’ll see.”

Again, there was an embarrassed silence. Finally, Edith asked: “I’ll have to feed him. And I myself could use a bite or two. Will you bring me to the kitchens?”

“There and anywhere else you'd like.”

*~*~*~*~*

Harun sat down in his chair, adjusted his cushion and reached into the folds of his robes for the volume of Plato. He hesitated. Was this quite the time yet? It was said after all that the greatest pleasure lies in anticipation. He was not entirely sure as to the accuracy of this statement, but one should at least give it a try. He drew his hand back out of the robe.

Hmm. What could he do while he waited for the joy of anticipation to come along?

Think. He could always think.

Henrik. That was the name of the man who had left his mind over all the excitement of the past days, but whom he had never entirely forgotten. Henrik, the murderer of Lukas the bondsman. He had to possess a sword to have done the deed. Where to look for it? But would he have to look for it at all? Had it not been hasty to try and gain entry to the smith’s house? After all, Harun reminded himself, he was a scholar, not a common burglar. His was the power of the mind, not of the hand – or legs, for that matter. He shuddered to think of his run back to the castle the last time he tried. No, this fool attempt had indeed been hasty. He had not stopped to think. And what could a scholar do but think to reach his goal?

An idea came to him. Why did the sword have to be hidden at all? He had thought to himself once, had he not, that for a smith such as Henrik the easiest way of getting rid of a sword used to murder somebody would be to hand it over to a customer. The thought had been half in jest back then, but what if it was true? What if Henrik hid the sword in the most obvious and unsuspicious place imaginable: among his other, nearly finished wares.

“But in this case,” Harun spoke softly to himself, “he would need to have a customer who ordered a sword specially, before the plan to take care of the bondsman ever came into his mind. Such items are costly, he could not count on selling it to a passing stranger. We have few enough of them in this place, and fewer still with pockets that deep.”

If he, Harun, was to find out whether someone had commissioned a sword from Henrik, he would minimize the risk he would have to take enormously, for when entering the smith’s house, he would know exactly where to look. If a sword had been ordered, it would be among the other wares.

Now the next question was: whom should he ask? Who could afford a sword in this place? The steward? Yes certainly, Harun had seen him wearing one. But from the looks of it, it was neither so new as to have come freshly from Henrik’s smithy, nor so old as to require a replacement soon. Who then? Harun couldn’t think of anyone of noble blood hereabouts, of anyone he had ever seen wearing a sword, much less fight with it.

Was he stuck?

One would see. He certainly would have to talk to Wenzel in the morning – if his friend, in his current state of mind, could spare him a thought. The matter required the expert opinion of a man-at-arms. Though at the moment Wenzel was in danger of turning into a man-in-a-woman's-arms.

Harun looked about him. It was late. The last light of the dying day threw strange colors on the walls. Being forced through golden layers of horn, the rose-coloured sun looked far less soppy than it usually did, and far more threatening to the shurta of Sevenport. Somewhere out there was the man he had set himself on catching. Luckily, that man didn’t know that Harun was after him.

Stop thinking about this, he told himself. It leads nowhere, does it? Your inquiries will have to wait till tomorrow.

So what now? Well, he was other things beside a shurta. He was, for instance, paid to work by his lord – and at the moment he wasn't doing a lot of work.

How about doing any work tonight?

He knew exactly how he felt about that: not altogether very positive. The day was almost over, and nothing more was going to be achieved. Yes. That sounded like a much better excuse than 'I am a lazy bastard'.

The Plato? No, no, he was trying to find joy in anticipation. It had not worked so far, but he wasn't quite ready to give it up.

Sleep. He was tired.

Harun got up and left the Scriptorium. As he crossed the main hall, where the dirty dishes still stood on the tables in all places but seven, he once again had the fleeting impression that he had missed something important. But he knew how to deal with this by now. He was tired, he was worried, and he knew better than to trust random feelings. After all he was a man of intellect. Logic and Maieutics, logic and Maieutics, that was the way to go about his business. But now, away with these thoughts. He yawned, opened the door to the tower steps and slowly made his way up the staircase. The next day would come soon enough, and with it, hopefully, real revelations.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Wenzel is getting his Romance! What do you think of Wenzel as a romantic? ;)

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Robert