Well Dead

XVI. The Oath-breaker of Joringard

Everybody shuddered at the mere mention of the name. Everybody but Harun. He could tell it was supposed to mean something. But he had never heard the name before. His mind, always prone to pounce on strange phrases, was suddenly attracted by one word in Wenzel’s tale.

“’Was’?” he asked. “You said ‘his name was’. Do you mean he is dead?”

Wenzel shrugged irritably. “God knows… probably he is. Now be quiet, will you? You’ll make me tell the story back to front.”

“Excuse me. Continue, min fadlak.”

“Sir Reimar,” Wenzel continued, “went forth on the crusade with his heart full of hope of performing great deeds that would let rain down honor on the name of his house and glorify our Lord Jesus Christ and other stuff like that. Of the three great armies that were to leave the Christian lands bound for Jerusalem that of the Emperor was the strongest, the bravest, and the quickest on its way, so he accompanied this mighty lord on his way eastward. They journeyed towards the rising sun, through far and foreign lands, past Constantinople and through Anatomya…”

Wenzel stopped, at a discreet clearing of Harun’s throat.

“Aye, what is it?”

“I don't think they went through any country called Anatomya. Do you perhaps mean Anatolia?”

Wenzel gave him a haughty look and continued.

“…through Anatolia, and there the disaster struck. They were waylaid by a heathen force and cowardly attacked from behind. In the struggle with the enemy, the valiant but aged Emperor, wearied by his years, could not defend himself and fell valiantly in the battle to the greater glory of God… What is it now?”

Annoyed, Wenzel turned to Harun, who had cleared his throat again.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Harun apologized, “I’m sure it’s a very good story, and you are telling it marvelously… it’s only that I read once he actually drowned in a river while trying to take a bath. Sorry.”

“Hell, what does it matter how the Emperor died as long as he wasn’t suffocated by a giant green-headed cat? The story isn’t about him, is it?”

“Don’t swear,” the girl said emphatically. “That’s blasphemy, what you are doing, that is.”

“Of course. I’m very sorry,” Wenzel said quickly. “Very and truly sorry, believe me.” The look he gave Harun now was considerably more displeased than the last one. Like 'See what you've done now, you've made me swear!'

Harun rolled his eyes.

“Now, I can perhaps continue,” Wenzel said importantly. “Were was I… aye, the Emperor Frederick was dead. Sir Reimar was devastated. So were most of the loyal followers of this great monarch. They all had dreamed of entering Jerusalem with him in the lead. Many of them despaired of ever fulfilling their oaths to free Jerusalem – but not Sir Reimar. He stayed, and would have attempted to go on all the way alone, although he would have been certain to starve in the dessert. But it did not come to that. For not yet all hope of reaching the Holy Land was lost. One of the dukes of the Emperor's army rallied what men he still had, and made them hold out in the desert. And there, in the midst of their despair, the armies of King Richard the Lionheart, and the King of France caught up with them.”

Wenzel paused, and took a bite of his salmon. To give him his credit as a storyteller, he chewed and swallowed before continuing to talk, which was by no means his normal practice.

“Thus Sir Reimar was saved and could continue his sacred journey. But in the joy about his deliverance from this mortal peril, he foresaw nought of the greater peril which was yet before him, and which would come not from chance or heathen foes, but from within his own heart.”