Harun never knew three days which were over as quickly as these and simultaneously took as long to take to pass. On the one hand, he dreaded they might be over, and Karl, trusting his advice, would get disgraced in front of all his friends and fellow villagers; on the other hand, he dreaded even more the steward, prone to pop up wherever Harun went, throwing threatening looks around in all directions. This would only be over when he had openly been accused. So please, court, Harun thought, come quickly.

It was a well-established metaphysical law that dread of an expected event causes time to run quicker, whereas the longing for such only served to slow down the ticking of the world’s universal clock. Harun supposed the two effects must more or less have neutralized one another, for the days were going by with a vexing conformity to their usual timetable: 24 hours long, the sun going first up, then down again.

Going once.

Going twice.

Any last bidders?

Gone.

Harun had promised himself he would go, and so go he would.

“How? If the village people get hold of you, they’ll beat the stuffing out of you for sure,” Wenzel pointed out to him.

“No they will not…”

“Why?”

“…if you accompany me.”

“Me? Why me?”

“You are a guard, are you not? Guarding is what guards are for.”

“I am a castle guard. You're not a castle.”

“I can hold up a little flag in each hand if it makes you feel better. I am afraid that I cannot provide any turrets or battlements…”

“Oh shut up, will you?”

“Yes, Milord.”

“You really want to go to this court thing?”

“I do not particularly want to, no, Wenzel. I must.”

“Because you promised?”

“Because I must. You see… I’ve started this affair. I’ve given that man what he needs either to destroy his brother’s killer, or be destroyed himself. I cannot simply walk out on him now and let him face the music alone.”

Wenzel sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Though I wished you wouldn’t involve me in your grand acts of loyalty and sense of duty.”

Harun smiled knowingly. “You are still worried people may try and attack me?”

“Aye.” Wenzel frowned as Harun's smile broadened. He obviously didn't understand why his friend was so calm.

“Tell me, Wennzel, who is the judge at this court.”

“Sir Christian of course. Why…” Wenzel's mouth dropped open. “Oh I see! If he’s there, nobody’ll dare touch you.”

“That’s right. Now can we go, please? Time is getting on, I do not wish to be late for this.”

“I suppose…”

They went down to the village together, still squabbling. Wenzel was not sure whether Harun would be allowed to come to the court at all.

“And why not?” the scribe enquired.

“It’s only for the free people of the village.”

“So what? I am free. Sir Christian set me free, years ago. That is why I am here.”

“Yes but…”

“But what?”

“You’re a Saracen.”

“And are Saracens by definition not free?”

“I think the answer of most people to that would be that they certainly ought not to be.”

“And you think the people of the village are among these most people?”

“Right in the front ranks.”

“And Sir Christian?”

“Don’t ask me what Sir Christian thinks. Or if.”

“Well, I, for my part, am willing to risk it.”

Wenzel groaned. “What’s become of this nice, fearful, timid scribe who shivered even at the prospect of getting his ankle turned by a nasty root on an uneven forest path? What have you done to my friend?”

“Do get yourself under control. We’re nearly there, and you don’t want to make a public spectacle of yourself, do you?”

“I might just as well. It wouldn't make any difference if I came to the court dancing and juggling apple pies. Soon enough, everybody will have reason enough not to notice me, when Karl makes his appearance.”

“True. But you haven’t got any apple pies.”

“More’s the pity. I’m getting peckish.”

It was ridiculous senseless talk, Harun reflected. But the two of them continued anyway. It was marvelous the way ridiculous talk could take your mind off things when you could have bitten off your fingers worrying.

“There,” Wenzel said presently, pointing ahead. “The court.”

“What? Where?”

“There, right in front of us. Don’t you see all the people? And there’s Sir Christian.”

There he was indeed, sitting in a strait-backed chair in front of the village church.

Harun stared. He had expected the court to be some kind of building, not a collection of people just trotting to a spot to have justice done. Obviously, he had been mistaken. All the village folk were gathered together in this place, which Harun had seen only once before, and then from the safe shadows of a hood.

Now, he felt the burning glares of the villagers on him, as he neared the gathering. Karl was there. He gave Harun a brief nod. Radulf was present, too. He did not give a nod. His eyes widened, and he took a step backwards. Momentarily, his gaze flickered to Karl, who seemed not to notice. Radulf took another step back. He looked over his shoulder. It was not far to the forest. Another. And another.

“Radulf, my good friend, come here, will you?” said Sir Christian. “A judge is little without good advice. And I shall certainly need you by my side today to see that all get what is their due and God’s just will.”

“Why, certainly, Milord,” the steward replied with a waxen smile. He returned to his place beside the lord of Sevenport.

The business of the court began. Had the matter at hand not been so serious, Harun would have found it quite funny to watch Radulf’s frequent escape attempts, always interrupted by Sir Christian asking advice on whom to give this contested hen and where exactly to place that boundary stone in a land dispute.

As the day wore on though, Harun realized how devastating that could prove: Here, finally, it became absolutely clear and apparent to what a considerable degree the lord of Sevenport relied on his steward in all worldly matters. Radulf practically ran the court for him. The question was: would he still, when he no longer was adviser, but accused?

“…three inches to the left of the old apple tree beyond the mill, and that’s final, Arne,” Radulf was saying. “That is where the stone belongs and that is where it is going. Now, I think that concludes all current disputes, does it not? If that is so, Sir Christian, I wonder if I might be excused, I have some rather important work to attend to…”

“Of course, Radulf, of course. You go along and…”

“Halt!”

Radulf, already having turned away from the court, stiffened. Slowly, he turned around again. And there was Karl, advancing towards Sir Christian' seat. He bent his knee before his lord, and spoke:

“Milord, I beg of you to hear me, even though I haven’t announced my case previously. It is on the matter of my poor brother’s death that I stand before you now.”

Sir Christian’s features, moments ago friendly and beneficial, were clouded by bitter memories at once.

“Speak, my good man. On this or any other day would I hear you to have justice done for this foul deed.”

“Thank you, Milord. I have come to make an accusation.”

“Have you now… Radulf, no do not go yet. Leave whatever it is you wanted to do, I am sure it cannot be as important a matter as this.”

By the look on Radulf’s face he didn’t think so, but he obeyed nevertheless. Silently and stiffly, he took up his post beside his lord’s chair.

Karl rose. He looked around and for a brief moment his gaze held Harun's. Then he looked straight ahead again and took a deep breath.

“I accuse,” he said in a loud, clear voice, “you!” He raised his finger and pointed it directly at Radulf.

“You are my brother's murderer.”

*~*~*~*~*

For a long time, nothing happened. Sir Christian was gazing into empty space, his head bent, and nobody seemed to want to disturb him. They were all too busy muttering to one another anyway. In the end, Radulf, increasingly red in the face – from fear? from anger? – took matters into his own hands. He took a step forward and roared:

“An outrageous accusation. I demand satisfaction at once!”

“Yes…” Sir Christian murmured, still looking dazed. “Satisfaction will undoubtedly have to be given…the lord demands…the lord demands justice!”

As though he found strength in these words, he raised his head again. His eyes became clear, and he looked straight at Karl.

“The lord demands it: Thou shalt not kill! This matter will be probed to the utmost. The accused shall take his stand on the left. The Accuser shall take his stand on the right.”

“But, Milord…” began Radulf.

Sir Christian didn't look at him. “The accused may not speak, unless spoken to!”

Radulf twitched, as though hit by a whip. Harun knew why. It was probably the first time Sir Christian had not asked, but given an order.

The lord nodded at Karl, who had taken up his place on the right side of the little square.

“Proceed.”

Karl bowed. “Milord. With your leave, I shall tell you, how I believe the death of my brother befell.”

Sir Christian nodded, gravely, but determinedly. “Do so.”

“I must begin with telling you of my brother’s shame. Then we will talk of those of another, present here.”

To the following tale, Harun listened only with half an ear, for it was his own, after all, and he knew it by heart. He was far more interested in what would happen afterwards.

“Do you think Radulf will be found guilty?” he whispered excitedly to Wenzel.

The guard, busy with studying the faces of those present, shrugged. “Maybe.”

Harun smiled. “Inshallah, Karl will triumph and we shall see Radulf dangling within a week.”

“Aye, but we’re in Pomerania, not in Shallah, wherever that is.”

“Inshallah means ‘God willing’, Wenzel.”

“Oh. Sorry. But I’m afraid it’ll take more than that.”

“Do you think then that the evidence I have found is insufficient?”

“Nay, Radulf’s guilty all right, that’s as clear as the day’s blue. If your evidence had anything to do with his being found guilty or not, I wouldn’t be worried.”

Harun’s excited smile was replaced, very slowly, by a rather horrific grimace.

“What do you mean ‘if my evidence had anything to do with his being found guilty’? Isn’t that what it’s all about?”

“Good lord no.” Wenzel turned to look at him, as though this was a very queer suggestion to make.

“Then why the unpleasant afterlife is he telling them all this stuff?” Harun pointed to Karl, who was still recounting the night’s events.

“Well, it won’t make a bad start, probably, but in the end it won’t really matter very much.”

“What do you mean, it will not matter? If Sir Christian is convinced and judges accordingly…”

“There won’t be much judging he’ll be able to do. It all depends on how many vouchers Karl and Radulf can advance.”

Harun was becoming more and more confused. “I believe there is a little problem here, Wenzel. I seem to have come to this place with the mistaken assumption that it is a courthouse. The second part was proved wrong straight away, since there is no actual house, but are you telling me this isn't even a court? Apparently, this is a madhouse- no, of course not there is no house, is there? A mad-meetingplace, yes, that is acceptable under the circumstances.”

“Are you quite all right, Harun?”

Harun gritted his teeth. “Certainly I am. Now tell me who or what are vouchers?”

“Don’t you know that?”

“Do you think I am in the mood to ask rhetorical questions? Think carefully before you answer.”

“Eh…no, I don’t.”

“Very well perceived. Now, an explanation, if you please.”

“Vouchers are people who…” Wenzel went in search of a description. “…who vouch for people,” he finished.

“I had already gathered that much. For what do they vouch, exactly?”

“Well, do you expect the court to swallow anything offered to them without knowing something of the repute of the offerer?”

“So these vouchers, they are there to establish bona fides?”

Wenzel did not even try to go in search of a meaning. He just looked at Harun.

“I mean, they are there to express their opinion on whether certain other people are trustworthy?”

“That’s what I said, Aye.”

“And whose bona fi- whom do they testify for?”

“Karl, or Radulf if they want to, the bastards.”

“And then? What ramifications does this have for the trial? I mean, what difference does it make?”

“It dishes the whole thing.”

“Pardon me?”

“Now you don’t understand me? That makes a nice change. To ‘dish’ means to…”

Harun waved his hands in the air, agitated. “I understood your statement perfectly. I am, however, not at all sure whether I am pleased with its implications. Do you mean to say, that no cadi, no judge, really hears the case and makes intelligent, well-considered judgments on the matter, but that all hinges on how many people each of the two party can produce who are prepared to say : ‘This fellow? Honest as the day’s long! Won’t hurt a fly, that one.’?”

“That’s about it, really.”

“But that means that the man with the most pull and influence will win any case!”

“Aye, it does.”

“And Karl accused Radulf? Knowing that?”

“Aye.”

“Why did he not tell me about this three days ago? He goes to his death as surely as the earth is a ball!”

“But isn’t it flat?”

Harun raised his hands in exasperation. “For heaven’s sake, to think Ptolemy lived 1600 years ago…No it most certainly is not! Why did he not tell me?”

“Probably because he didn’t want you to know.”

“But why? I’d have told him this is madness, and he’s an imbecile even to attempt it.”

“Exactly.”

Harried, Harun looked over to Sir Christian's seat. Karl had almost finished his account by now. What could he do? He realized that there was only one logical answer to this question: sit tight. May all Greek philosophers fry in hell!

“…he returned to the castle, using the same way as he used to get out,” the peasant was saying just now. “Thus, nobody could possibly lay the blame for the murder he himself committed at his door, if the things I have told you were not unearthed. But now they are, and here he is. I beg of you but one thing, Milord: Judge him, as is just.”

“A fair speech,” Sir Christian said, gravely. “Now, Radulf. You have no doubt heard what blasphemous deeds are laid at your door. What is your reply to this?”

“That I will not have my good name destroyed like this by the slanderous lies of a peasant,” the steward growled. “I have no wild tales to propound! Let us proceed directly,” he added with a glint in his eye, “to the presenting of the vouchers, lest my repute be damaged beyond repair.”

“As you wish. You, Karl, I take it, have nothing to add?”

“No, Milord.”

“Then the presenting of the vouchers shall begin. Now you may show, Radulf, whether others believe in the repute you ascribe to yourself.”

“That, Milord, I shall.”

The steward stepped forward, his sharp eyes flitting here and there, signaling to people all over the crowd, who suddenly wished they had not come, but knew they could not leave. The hawk-like glare snatched them, and drew them out to stand beside the man who knew his weapons all too well. Seed, corn, water, bread and barn… how simple were the things to decide over life and death, in a cold winter, or here, in a court.

Harun only half witnessed Wenzel’s whispered comments as one man after the other took their stand beside Radulf: “…that’s Nicholas, the huntsman…well, peasant officially. But he makes his living through poaching, everybody knows that and guess who he sells his game to…that’s the miller, he gets his corn from Radulf… that’s Jannek, now he’s really a peasant, and one fond of gambling, at that. He’s been known to spend some nice and cosy, though not really profitable evenings at a tavern table with Radulf and a friend of his named dice…and that’s…”

The list went on and on. In the end it seemed to Harun that a third of the village inhabitants were standing around Radulf. Harun noticed that as Radulf looked around himself proudly, their eyes remained on the ground.

“Are these all people who wish to speak to you?” Sir Christian asked.

“Yes, they are.”

“Are you?” the Lord sought to confirm. “Do you wish to speak for this man and say that he could have done no evil? That he is a man of whom nobody should think ill?”

There was a series of tentative nods.

“Very well then. I must ask if there is anybody else who wishes to speak for the accused.”

Not one of the people before the church moved a muscle.

“That concludes this part of the proceedings. The accused will retreat with his vouchers to the steps of the church, and await there the outcome of his adversary’s efforts.”

Radulf did as he was told. At a gesture from Sir Christian, Karl now stepped forward.

“I have only the truth as my witness,” he spoke. Yet he did not address Radulf, nor Sir Christian. He spoke to the village. “You know me, and you knew my brother. I say to you: this is the truth. And now I ask – no, I beg anyone who is my friend to step forward and speak up for me, as for my dead brother’s soul. I want him to rest in peace and have his justice, in heaven and on earth. Please. Speak for me.”

Nobody moved. It seemed as though nobody dared shatter the reverberating silence of these words. Almost nobody.

“Isn’t there anybody going to get moving? I thought they all are his friends!”

“Be quiet, Harun!” Wenzel hissed. “Somebody’ll hear you! And then they’ll remember you are here!”

“I do not care whether I am here or in a pool at the Alhambra, somebody has to get moving! What about Michal? Or Henrik?”

“You said yourself how powerful Radulf was! They're afraid.”

“Yes, but that is no reason to… oh, this is too unintelligent for phrasing! I will go.”

“No! Don’t move or he’s lost!”

“If somebody leads the way, they might….”

“…take him for the friend of a Saracen and from that to a liar how far d’you think it is? Stay where you are! I’ll go!”

Wenzen readjusted his armor and walked over to Karl.

“Wenzel?” Karl looked the approaching guard in the face, actually managing to smile happily. “Nice seeing you again, my friend.”

“I’d return the greeting if it wasn’t for the occasion,” Wenzel murmured. “Now look at that. Is that a nice sight?”

“It is justice, being made.”

“I rather think it’s injustice being made out of cowardice! You!”

Wenzel walked over to Michal and grabbed him. The perfect victim: Large, not easy to miss, and not agile enough to slip away quickly – that is, if he had grasped quickly enough what was going on.

“Me?” He said, his small mouth opening slightly, making him look rather like a goldfish badly in need of a diet.

“Yes, you! Why are you still standing there? Do you believe your friend to be a liar?”

“Well…I…I mean to say…”

“Do you or don’t you?”

“I…no, not as such…”

He had said it. That was all that was necessary. Before Michal knew what had happened, the crowd behind him had retreated several steps and he suddenly was standing in the open, together with Karl and Wenzel.

“I don’t, either!”

All heads turned, and saw Henrik the smith stepping forward. He took up a place directly beside Karl.

“I’m with you.”

“And so am I,” called out the smith’s apprentice, following his master, towing a skinny peasant along. “Daniel, come on.”

“I don’t know…. Do you really think…”

“Yes I do!”

“Oh, all right then….”

“I believe you, Karl!”

“And I!”

“Me, too!”

With amazement, Harun watched as a steady stream of people detached itself from the main crowd, to gather round Wenzel, Karl, Michal, Henrik and Daniel. Then, after a time, it was hardly proper to speak of a ‘main crowd’ anymore: more people now stood grouped around the accuser and his friends than opposite them. That was good. That was definitely very good. Yet Harun could not help realizing with a sudden, unpleasant jolt that he might find himself in very uncomfortable position once he, the Saracen, was the only man remaining standing alone, plain for all to see.

And then he was alone.

The eyes of the crowd, now standing opposite him around Karl, focused on him.

“What’s he doing here?”

“Come to spy and pry!”

“Spread his damn lies!”

“Off with you, or we’ll have the skin off you!”

“Leave him be!” Karl stepped out from the crowd, holding up his hands. Inconspicuously, he nodded to Harun. “He has nothing to do with what happens here today. We are after a very different kind of fiend.”

He turned, pointing to the figure of Radulf at the church door.

Harun sighed. He wished there was a way he could communicate his thanks to the big, serious peasant. Perhaps there would be, another day.

“I have gathered my vouchers around me,” Karl called out. “All those, who think of me as true and just, stand here! Now, Milord,” he knelt before Sir Christian, “it is yours to judge.”

“That I shall,” was the lord’s reply. “If both accused and accuser will order their vouchers into a line, I will proceed to a count of the good free men who have come out here today to give their judgment. And that will decide the matter in accordance with ancestral custom and the justice of men.”

The vouchers moved into long lines before the church. Long, yes, but which one was longer? Harun strained his neck to see clearly, but so many people had taken their place on both sides of the church that it was impossible to judge their numbers just by looking.

Not so by counting, however.

Sir Christian went along the lines, slowly moving his lips as the numbers of life and death added up. He reached the last of Karl’s vouchers, stopped and looked up.

“One-hundred and fifty-six,” he said.

Karl nodded silently.

Sir Christian turned, tracing his steps back to the beginning, and further, along Radulf’s line of defense. When he had reached the steward, he fixed his unworldly eyes upon him.

“One-hundred and forty-five.”

The autumn wind chose this moment to tear a few leaves from a nearby, already nearly bare tree. They sailed across the little square in front of the church, with nobody paying any head to their fate.

Sir Christian nodded to a few figures in the crowd, all of which were distinguishable by their makeshift arms as castle guards. They came to him, although one, who had been standing beside Radulf, did so rather hesitantly.

“Previously, you would not speak for yourself,” Sir Christian said to Radulf. “Is there anything you wish to say now, before justice is dealt?”

Radulf looked up to meet the eyes of his Overlord. Harun did not know what he had been expecting the face of a man who had just be condemned to death to look like. He had certainly not imagined it to be smiling triumphantly.

“Yes,” Radulf replied. “There is just one thing.”

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So, how do you think I portrayed the medieval judicial system in this chapter? I hope it came across as interesting? :)

Cheers

Robert