Well Dead

XXIII. Peasant for Prosecution

Harun heard the steps first. Some kinds of terror have been known to sharpen ears considerably. As soon as he heard them, though, Radulf was at his side immediately. His arms closed around the scribe, and Harun felt hands around his throat.

“If you wish to keep your worthless life, I would advise you to keep your lying tongue behind your lips, heathen,” the steward's voice whispered in his ear.

Harun did as he was told. He would have done anything the man said. Had he been his usual self it might have occurred to him that in case of being threatened with death if one tried to call for help, threathened by someone who, once the aforementioned help had passed beyond reach, clearly not intended to take one on a day-tour of daisy-picking, the most advisable course of action would be to start and shout like hell. However, feeling the hand on his throat and the voice in his ear, Harun was far from being his usual logical self.

The steps approached. Harun could hear them getting louder and louder, drumbeats, pounding in his mind. Then they stopped. Right in front of the door – which opened.

“Hello, hello, who have we here?” Wenzel said, smiling broadly at the two rigidly interwoven men. “Harun and Radulf? Am I butting in? Two men at the same time in this place, that’s a bit much already – at least if you want to stay decent – but three? That won’t do at all, ain’t that right, Sir?”

The guard’s eyes met those of Radulf.

“If I were in your shoes, I would clear off. Now.”

For a second or two nothing happened. Then, Harun felt the grip around his throat loosen. Radulf stepped back, straightened his doublet, and left without a word.

It was that more than anything else which convinced Harun of his guilt. More than the hemp on the beams, more than feeling the man’s fingers on his throat. This proud nobleman taking orders from a disheveled underling like Wenzel – such things did not happen when the world was the right way up.

Harun straightened up, shaking.

“Seems you were right,” Wenzel said in a soft voice. He stepped closer and put his arm around Harun’s shoulders. The scribe let himself be steered away. A few minutes later, they were at the door of Harun’s tower room. Harun had been wrong before: it had good, solid bolts on the inside. Wenzel made use of them immediately after he had deposited Harun on his bed. Then, he sat down beside the scribe.

Harun stared up at him.

“Wenzel… I…I…you…”

“Save your breath,” the guard interrupted him gently. “Do you know what happened down in the courtyard? Five minutes after you went in I saw Radulf enter the keep. And do you know what? I nearly didn’t follow him. I nearly didn’t.” He shook his head. “I thought…I thought to myself Oh Wenzel, you don’t take all that waffle of Harun’s seriously, do you, you clod? Radulf commit a murder, how silly…”

He shivered.

“But you did come,” Harun said. His voice was hoarse.

“Aye.”

“Had you not better get back? Your shift is not finished yet, is it?”

“Nay, it ain’t.”

“So will you not go?”

“Nay, I won’t. Not just now. I'll stay with you for a bit.”

There was no need for any further words. No need for thanks, pledging, anything. All the room was taken up by silent friendship.

*~*~*~*~*

Wenzel’s absence from his guard post was noticed and reported. Sir Christian would only too readily have forgiven this fault if adequate remorse had been shown, but unfortunately remorse for a wrongdoing involved explaining the reason for the aforementioned wrongdoing.