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                            Bente the Collier
                                by Argon

Copyright© 2011 by Argon


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Description: Bente is a collier known for the quality of his coal, but he is held in little regard by the other villagers. Only Lotta, the smith's beautiful daughter, is friendly to him, inciting a hopeless love in the lonely young man. Hopeless? Take one dark crusader, six ruthless soldiers, and a wounded nobleman. Then mix with vigour and enjoy a happy ending!

Codes: MF rom violent
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Lotta, the daughter of Rune the Smith, looked up from her needle work when she heard hoof beat in front of her father's smithy. She sighed and stood up. She knew her father was busy this morning, harvesting the bloom from the renn furnace, and he had told her that Bente would come to deliver more charcoal.

She stepped outside and there he was, all sooty, grimy, six feet five fingers and fifteen stone of him, his healthy teeth white in his smiling, blackened face.

"Hello, Maid Lotta," he greeted her politely, for Lotta's father was one of the most respected men for miles around.

"Hello Bente," Lotta smiled. "Father is expecting the coal already. Can you pour it into the bunker? How much did you bring?"

"Two score bushels," Bente grinned back at her. "Of course, I'll load it into the bunker for you. A pretty maid like you should not get near the coal."

He always seemed to be in a laughing mood, Lotta thought. Or perhaps, he only wanted to show off his healthy teeth? The thought made her laugh.

"Thank you. I pity the old and homely, though," she bantered back. "They get sooty on top of their ugliness."

"Oh no," he protested. "I always unload the coal. It's not a problem, and the soot washes off easily enough."

Somehow, Lotta had difficulties envisioning Bente with clean garb and washed face.

"How much does my father owe you?" she asked instead.

"Twenty groschen," Bente answered, smiling again.

He had reason to smile, Lotta thought. A groschen seemed ample money for two bushels of charcoal. Yet, Rune, her father, insisted that Bente's coal was worth that money. It was purer than the coal from competing colliers, perhaps because Bente used beech wood, perhaps because his piles were the largest, making the charring process more complete, but most likely because Bente knew his trade very well.

Lotta did a quick calculation. She was a bright girl, and she knew her numbers. Already, she helped her father with the tallies for tax and tithe. She had heard somewhere that Bente's piles yielded over four-hundred bushels of coal; that meant two-hundred groschen - a full ten guilders! He did four piles each year, she knew. Forty guilders, and he was living alone in the forest, with no mouths to feed.

Isaac's daughter Ruth had told her that Bente did most of his business with the Baron's castle and the town below. She knew that because her father, Isaac the Jew, traded with the town. It must be nice to see the castle and the town once in a while, Lotta thought.

She also knew that he snared small animals, both for meat and for the skins he sold in the village, and there were rumours that a few roe deer fell to his arrows, too. Yet, the Baron's hunters had failed to catch him so far and the leftover bones could be disposed of conveniently in the wood piles and turned into coal.

She blushed when she realised that she had stared at him. "I'm sorry, I was in thought," she apologised.

"Never mind, Maid Lotta. It gave me excuse to look at you in turn," he grinned, causing Lotta to blush prettily.

"Bente, Bente, you must learn to behave," she chided him. "Speaking of behave, will you come to the dance tonight?"

"I planned to," he answered. "If I clean up really well, will you give me a dance?"

"I will not recognise you, all cleaned up," Lotta laughed. "I will look out for a strange, tall man who speaks with your voice."

"I shall come, then. Will you give me an early dance? I cannot stay long for I must deliver a wagon load of coal to the Castle on the morrow."

Lotta's eyes lit up. "For the Baron's forge? That's good. Could you carry along a few bars of bloom for my father? I'll even give you two dances if you agree," she added with a flirting smile.

"I can do that. How much weight?"

"Two hundred pounds in all."

He smiled and nodded, and Lotta gave him a smile in return.

"Let me tell Father," she gushed and ran for the furnace house.

Her father looked up when she entered. "Any problems, Lotta?" he asked.

"No, Father, just the opposite. Bente delivers the coal, and I found out that he will bring a load to the Castle on the morrow. I asked him real nicely, and he agreed to take the bloom along for you."

Rune's brows knitted. "You are not encouraging the man? Lotta, he's but a collier. He's dirty, likely a poacher, and nobody knows what things he does in that forest. You can have your pick from the best young men in the village. Arne fancies you, and so does Lucas, Artur's son."

"I promised him a dance, Father, that's all," Lotta answered, feeling defensive.

"No! I'll not allow it! Think of what the village will say, girl!"

"But you always buy his coal, and you say he's the best collier far and wide, Father," Lotta protested.

"And I buy spices from the Isaac the Jew. Does that mean he gets to dance with my daughter?"

"He wouldn't, Father. Besides, he has a pretty daughter himself."

"Pretty. Hah! Hair like a crow, and as unlucky, too! Don't you mingle with those!"

There was no use arguing with her father, Lotta knew.

"I shall tell Bente that you won't allow me to dance with him," she said, resigned.

"Don't! Are you out of your mind, girl? I need his coal. Just tell him that you thought it over."

Lotta wanted to protest but considered. What good would it do? She left the furnace house and found Bente emptying the last sack into the coal bunker.

"I'm sorry, Bente. I ... I thought it over. It's better if you didn't ask me to dance."

She thought her face would explode with the shame she felt. She expected him to be angry but he surprised her.

"Your father, eh? I know he holds me in low esteem. I'm good enough to deliver the coal he needs, but not more. Don't fret over it, Lotta. It's been like this all my life."

Without further words he folded the sacks and stacked them neatly in the bed of the wagon. When he turned to her, his smile was gone and the sadness in his eyes tore into Lotta's heart.

"Tell your father that I want my twenty groschen."

Nodding silently, Lotta turned to find her father again. "He wants the money for the coal, Father."

"Err, what? Tell him, next time! I don't have that much around; not before I deliver to the Castle. Damn it, Lotta, think of something! Give him a smile! The fool will do anything for your smile."

A dam broke in Lotta. "Why don't you go out and give him a smile yourself? I shall not lead him on! I obeyed you, but I am not a tease!"

She stormed from the furnace house, not heeding her father's calls. She found Bente waiting at the bunker.

"My father will be with you in a moment. Good bye!" She exhaled. "I'm sorry, Bente."

She said it loud enough for her father to hear. Then she stormed into the house, slamming the door shut. She picked up her needlework, but she was too angry, and she threw it into a corner. Then she looked through the window and her mouth stood agape. Bente was emptying the coal bunker, refilling his sacks and loading them onto his wagon while her father stood there seemingly pleading with the tall collier. Obviously his pleading availed for naught. Bente drove his fully loaded wagon away without looking back.

A few moments later her father readied his large mule wagon and drove off as well. Breathing deeply Lotta controlled her anger and began with her chores again.

When her father returned the wagon was loaded with sacks, and for the next half hour she heard him curse as he unloaded sack after sack of coal into his bunker. When he entered the house for the noon meal he looked much like a collier himself.

"Now see what you did!" he accused her. "I had to buy from that rascal Martin. He charged me two Groschen a sack, too, the cur, and it's bad coal, not fully charred. At least he lets me pay in a week."

Lotta said nothing. She felt that her temper was boiling up again and thought it better to keep her mouth shut. Instead, she ladled soup into a large cup and wordlessly placed it in front of her father.

"I had better find you a husband soon," he grumbled on while spooning his soup. "Your temper gets worse. You're nearly as bad as your mother, bless her."

Casting one last, murderous glance at her father, Lotta slammed the soup bowl on the table and left the house. With long strides she walked into the small woods nearby and sat on a fallen tree while tears ran over her cheeks. That last sentence had been too much! Her mother had died just a year ago, and the hurt was still fresh. That he dared to talk badly about her! He, who had refused to call for Ruth, Isaac's daughter, who knew healing. Ruth would have saved her, but Rune did not want a Jewess in his house.

Now, he wanted to marry her, Lotta, off. Good luck with that! They still needed her to say "aye" in church, and with either of the two prospects he had named that was not likely.

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As Bente was driving his wagon homeward he still felt the anger burn in his stomach. All his life he had been treated with disdain. All his life people had made fun of him. All his life he was told that he was not good enough for anyone and anything.

Was it his fault? Certainly not. Bente had been found in the forest close to starving. He was but an infant of a few days' age, and Erwin, the old collier, had run hotfooted to the village with him to find a nursing mother. With the collier's bad reputation only Mette, the village whore whose little girl had died after birth, was willing to nurse the little boy. Erwin had paid her for two years until little Bente was weaned.

After that, he had been handed from one family to the next until he was ten years old. He was tall then for his age and he began to beat up on children who taunted him. The village then decided that the ungrateful boy must leave and Erwin took him in, in his hut in the middle of the forest.

For eight more years, Erwin raised the boy as best he could, teaching him the delicate craft of turning wood into coal. The man and the boy lived and worked alone. Nobody ever visited except for the Baron's hunter who took a liking to Bente and to the booze Erwin prepared from forest berries. From the hunter, Bente learned how to set snares and how to shoot the longbow. Of course, nobody must know about the longbow; the hunt for deer was a privilege of the Baron and his household.

Watching the wood pile smoulder for days, Bente had ample time to practice with bow and arrow. He also learned a lot about the animals of the forest by watching them patiently. Had it not been for his awakening urges, Bente would have been content living in the forest forever.

When Bente was sixteen years old, Erwin took him to the Baron's castle where he delivered coal to the forge. The Baron employed a number of master smiths for the forging of weapons and armour, and Erwin had to bring one-hundred bushel of charcoal each year, to pay for the use of the forest.

Bente had looked around the castle with big eyes. There were so many people! He was even allowed to spend a day in the forge, and one of the smiths showed him how they used a bed of glowing charcoal to temper the steel.

Here, in the town under the castle, Bente had his first woman. Erwin dragged him into a brothel, the Red Cockerel, and paid for them both. On that evening, Bente saw his first naked woman and for the first time experienced the delicious feel of a hot woman's sex around his member. It was not to be his last time in the Red Cockerel. In the years to come, whenever he brought charcoal to the forge, he spent a night in the brothel.

He became a well-liked visitor with the women and girls because, in spite of his difficult youth, he was gentle with them and eager to please them. He also paid good money for their services and he never tried to cheat them. Thus, at age twenty-three, Bente the Collier knew more about women than any of the young men in the village and even most of the elder.

Four years ago, when Bente was nineteen, Erwin who was an old man misjudged a falling tree and he was not fast enough anymore to jump aside. Bente found him barely alive under the tree and dragged him home to their cabin. Before Erwin died that night from the caved-in chest, he gave Bente some last instructions. Among those he told the young man where to find Erwin's stash of silver and gold coins for the collier had earned good money and spent little of it in his long life.

Thus, young Bente inherited the cabin, the rights to the forest, and three leather bags of coins when he buried his adopted father on the morrow. He made a trip to the castle to announce his stepfather's death and to have the use of the forest transferred to him. The Baron's caretaker raised the annual rent to one-hundred and twenty bushels of coal, but Bente gained the right to hunt for small animals in exchange.

Now, four years later, Bente had filled another leather bag with coins, and he had improved the cabin where he lived with fine copper pots, a masonry fireplace with oven, a large bed frame, and chicken feather filled quilts for the cold nights. He had replaced the old shingles with new ones, had built new shutters for the windows, and he had treated the wooden sidings of the cabin with linseed oil and turpentine to make them rainproof.

Although he would have never admitted it, the driving force behind those improvements was his infatuation with Lotta, the Smith's daughter. He looked forward to delivering coal to the smithy for the chance to see the girl. She was always friendly to him, always had been, even when they were both children. Whenever he delivered coal to the smith and met his daughter Bente started some new improvement for his cabin, hoping against hope that one day he might carry her over the threshold as his wife.

Today, things were different, though. The visit had not gone well, far from it. Lotta had been as friendly as ever, and Bente even saw a glimmer of hope when she promised him a dance. However, her father had squashed that hope. He even tried to stiff Bente for the money. That was when Bente decided he wanted nothing of that man anymore.

He did not need the business. The Baron's forge bought every bushel of coal he could produce. Anything over the one-hundred and twenty bushels was paid for in silver groschen, for the Baron's caretaker was a hard but honest man. The only reason for Bente to sell his coal in the village had been to see Lotta.

Now he arrived at his cabin at the fringe of the forest and his heart fell, realising that Lotta's father would never accept a proposal from him. He was a collier, dirty and sooty, and not worthy to look at the smith's precious daughter.

At least, he could sell the coal he had retrieved from the smith's bunker to the Baron's forge, and he would incur no loss. Over the next hours, sustained by the anger that burned in his stomach, he loaded the wagon high with sacks of coal, ready for the trip to the castle. He had no desire anymore to go to the village for the summer solstice dance, but again, his anger made him go. He would show up and at least pretend to have fun.

Bente had a large tub which he filled with water from the nearby creek and with water from the cauldron over the fire place. He added shavings from a soap bar and sank into the warm water, soaking his sooty body and hair. He washed himself thoroughly, as was his custom, and when he was finished he soaked his work clothes, too.

When he rode his draft horse over to the village he was clean from head to toe and he wore his best pants and vest. No wooden shoes for him either, but soft deer skin boots encased his feet. When he arrived he strolled about the village square and greeted the people he knew, mostly the people who had housed him for a year or two as a child. Some of them were old now and needy, and Bente had brought them some bacon and peas from the town. He liked to repay them a little, now that he was earning good money with his craft.

He also met the other collier, Martin, who told Bente how Rune had come with his wagon to buy up every piece of coal Martin had. With a grin, Martin admitted to selling off a batch of coal that his regular customers had rejected.

The smith had come, but after one withering look at the two colliers, he ignored both of them. Lotta was there, too, and she looked so pretty in her fine dress that Bente heart ached again. Her father kept pushing young men at her with whom she had to dance, and as the evening wore on Bente felt bitter bile rise in his throat. He left even before the bonfires were lit to return to his lonely cabin.

He did not sleep much that night and when the dawn lighted the eastern sky he was up and moving. The rising sun saw him on the way east, on the trail towards the Baron's castle. The two animals had a hard time pulling the fully loaded wagon, and it was close to noon before the turrets and ramparts of the castle loomed ahead.

Just then Bente saw a group of horsemen approaching. Bente could see that it was a hunting party and he pulled his wagon to the side of the trail making room for them. Hunters on horseback could only be from the castle and most likely the Baron himself was with them. Bente took off his cap and stood on his wagon with his head bowed as was the custom when meeting the lord of the lands.

The riders came to a halt at the wagon. "Who are you, young fellow, and what is you are bringing?" the Baron inquired.

Bente had heard the voice before and, looking up, he recognised the Baron.

"I am Bente the Collier, Lord, and I bring charcoal for your forge."

"I have heard of you, Bente the Collier," the Baron spoke, and was there a hint of a laugh in his voice? "My armorer swears by the quality of your coal, yet my chief hunter insists he'll catch you one day with a dead deer over your shoulder. What be the truth, Bente?"

Bente thought quickly. The Baron was in good mood; perhaps a little jesting was in order?

"Lord, I can only speak for the quality of my coal. The future eludes my view. If my Lord's chief hunter speaks truth I can only hope to have hunted with my Lord's permit."

"You are right, lad! That will be your only hope, and a slim hope 'twill be. Go and deliver your coal, and if you own a longbow, best make coal of it while you have a chance!"

"Why bother with that churl?" another rider spoke up. His pockmarked face bore a deep scar and a sinister scowl. "If your hunter says he poaches let us use him for target practice. 'Tis the only way to deal with the likes of him!"

"Why, Brother, that's a fool's council!" the Baron responded with some heat. "Alive, this fellow brings the coal for my forge, and perhaps kills a dear far away from my own hunting grounds. If he's dead I have to buy that coal while the deer alive avails me naught."

With that the riders spurred their horses and took off while Bente shrugged. None of the Baron's hunters knew the forest like he did, and they could not sneak up on a dead cow. He clucked his tongue and his horses dragged the wagon forward again. The trail was widening, so close to the castle, and Bente made better speed.

A little after noon, he reached the drawbridge that led through the walls of the town. The sentries knew him from his regular deliveries, and he drove his wagon through the wide Market Street and then left, where the Baron's armoury and forge stood.

Bente loved to deliver at the forge because here the apprentices had to unload his wagon. They groaned when they saw the big load while the forge master grinned widely.

"That's good. You brought an extra load today. We can use it. How much this time?"

"Forty-two sacks, Master; four bushels each."

"That's - wait - one-hundred and sixty-eight bushels. Take away the one-hundred and twenty you owe the Baron, and that's still thirty-eight bushels, right?"

"Forty-eight, by my reckoning, Master," Bente smiled.

"Forty ... Of course, where's my head? Twenty-four groschen, right?"

Bente smiled and nodded. The master smith counted off twenty-four groschen and Bente gave one to the apprentices, for luck as Erwin had taught him. One of the lads even swept the wagon bed with a broom, to get rid of the coal dust.

Leaving his wagon at a stable Bente went to sell last winter's cured skins. He had quite a number of ermine pelts but also rabbit and hare skins to sell, and he realised another twenty groschen for them.

All in all, it had been a profitable afternoon. Bente used a small part of his coins to buy sacks of peas, dried beans, and other preserved food for his use. He also found a brass oil lamp, with a coil of wicker and two earthen bottles filled with lamp oil.

He also learned what news the town could boast. The most important was that the Baron's younger brother had returned from the crusades. The merchants looked over their shoulders before they spoke in hushed voices about him. Always a man feared by the peasants and townspeople for his terrible temper and haughty disposition, he had returned from the Holy Land disfigured by the plague and an even fiercer man.

Bente realised that the pockmarked man in the train of the baron must have been that brother. Aye, things would look bleak for the peasants of the lands if this man were the lord of the lands.

He had all his purchased goods brought to the stable where he loaded his wagon for the return trip before he went into town for the evening. Out of habit he went straight for the Red Cockerel. They offered a good supper in the common room, and Bente preferred to eat supper with the girl he picked for a night. The girl, Erna by name, was new to the Red Cockerel. She was young and fresh, and she smiled and talked a lot. Bente enjoyed her company.

Yet, when the girl led him up to her narrow chamber and undressed, Bente's heart became heavy again. This was not right. He should have a real sweet heart, a girl with whom he might have a future. With a sad voice, Bente told Erna to dress again. She wanted to return the silver she had received already, but Bente told her to keep it. She shrugged, telling him if he paid, he might as well sleep in her chamber, and that was what they settled on. Before they fell asleep, Erna asked him if she was not appealing to him, and so Bente told her about his hopeless love for Lotta, the Smith's beautiful daughter. She comforted him and commiserated with him, and he felt so comfortable with her that he finally fell asleep.

Bente broke the fast with Erna before he found his wagon at the stable to drive back to his cabin. With the almost empty wagon, Bente made good speed. He was nearing his forest already, and it was barely noon when he spotted horsemen approaching. A little fear gripped Bente when he saw the man in the lead. It was the Baron's brother. Again, Bente pulled over and stood beside it, head bowed.

"It's that poacher again?" the snarling voice sounded. "Well, my fellow, do you know this forest?"

Bente nodded. "Aye, Lord. I set my snares here; I know it well."

"Good! My brother, the Baron, went missing last evening. He was after a wounded stag, and we fear the worst. Meinhard here will rouse every able bodied man in yonder village to search for my dear brother, and you will lead them."

"Aye, Lord!" Bente responded. "You wish I pick those men up with my wagon? 'Twill save daylight time."

"You're not quite dumb, it seems," the baron's brother snarled. "Do that! Meinhard, ride with him and rouse every lazy churl in that village. You search from the east. Do not rest until my brother is found."

"Beg your pardon, Lord, but the boars have young this time of the year," Bente spoke up. "We should bring lances in case the Baron was trapped on a tree by wild boars."

The dark man looked at Bente and gave him a cold smile. "My brother was right, Collier. You are useful. Meinhard, have the men take lances with them!"

With that, the riders spurred their horses save for the man Meinhard who smiled at Bente.

"Bring your wagon to your home already. I shall bring out the villagers. Can you get some torches, Collier?"

"I can and I shall, worthy Corporal. The men should bring food, too. I will take us three days at least, to search this forest."

Meinhard nodded. "I shall see to it. Be ready when I return!"

Bente urged his horses on, and in a short time, he reached his cabin. He unhitched the animals and put them to pasture. Then he unloaded the wagon and dressed in his wood clothes. He threw dried meat and bread into his knapsack, filled a water bag from the creek, and gathered a dozen torches in a basket.

When the Corporal Meinhard arrived at the edge of the forest with some twenty villagers, Bente was waiting for them. Bente was carrying his longbow and quiver, and several of the villagers were also armed with bows and lances. Seeing the longbow Meinhard grinned a little but then he shrugged. What did he care about a doe here and a stag there?

Meinhard had them form a wide line. He and Bente walked the centre. They entered the forest and moved in a general westward direction. Soon they had to fight their way through dense underbrush and they would have lost their way had it not been for Bente's sense of direction. For most of five hours until darkness set in they combed the woods, calling for the missing Baron and making much noise so as to mark their progress. The Corporal conducted a roll call every so often to make sure none of the search party was lost.

They camped out for the night when darkness settled on the forest. A large bonfire was built, both to keep animals away and to attract the missing Baron. The villagers huddled together grumbling under their breath. It was harvest time and here they were running about in the forest. The Corporal Meinhard sat with Bente and they talked about the next day. Bente did not think that the Baron had gone into the deep forest. The underbrush there was so thick that the wounded stag could not have gone there, so why would the Baron?

Yet, Meinhard's instructions were to search from east to west. In the end they compromised. They would head westward, but a little to the south, covering the fringes of the forest with their left flank.

Over the next day, they must have covered over ten miles, but they still saw neither hair nor feather of the Baron. Again, they built a bonfire and camped for the night. The villagers were complaining openly now, but Meinhard was adamant. The Baron's brother had said to search until they found the Baron, and that was what he would do.

Before he turned in that evening Bente went to the side to relieve himself. Once in the shadows and away from the bonfire his eyes adjusted to the darkness quickly. Suddenly, he thought he could see a flicker of a light, far away between the trees. He stared into the dark for a while before he saw it again. Now he was certain. That could be the Baron.

Quickly, Bente roused the Corporal and told him of the fire. Meinhard came with him, and they stared into the night together for some time before the flicker became visible again. Meinhard agreed that they should have a look at that fire and he picked up his sword and knapsack. Bente took his bow and quiver and his long knife, and together the two men set out for the distant fire.

To their luck, the forest floor was soft with pine needles, with only a few rocks strewn in, and the two men managed to advance steadily. They could see the fire stronger and stronger as they came closer, and in its shine they could avoid the rocks, branches and roots in their path.

Suddenly, a cry of pain sounded through the night, followed by a cruel laughter. Bente stopped dead in his tracks. He knew that voice: it was the crusader, the brother of the baron. Meinhard had heard it too; his eyes were wide in his head and he motioned for Bente to be silent. They edged closer and when they rounded a large boulder they had a free view of the camp site. There, bound against a tree, was the Baron, doubled over in pain. In front of him stood his brother. He held a many tiered antler in his hand, the tips of which were red with blood.

"See, Brother, this is how you'll die. A few more pokes with this, and you'll bleed to death. When the brave villagers will find you it will be obvious that the wounded buck killed you."

"You niding!" the wounded Baron croaked. "The hell will have you for this!"

"Oh, Brother! You still believe that nonsense? Heaven and Hell? It's just stories to keep the gullible in line. But I believe we should end this. I have to get back to our camp to head the search for you."

Laughing his cruel laugh he raised the antlers again, preparing to stab his brother, but now Meinhard stormed forward, a cry of rage on his lips and his sword drawn. The dark crusader turned on his heels and using the tines of the antler, he managed to thwart Meinhard's thrust. Next his gloved left hand crashed into Meinhard's face stunning the poor man momentarily. With a cruel grin he unsheathed his own sword.

"Meinhard, Meinhard, what are you doing here alone? You should have stayed where I told you to search."

Poor Meinhard tried to clear his head while the Crusader raised the sword, ready to impale the prone man.

Bente had watched in a trance. How could this be? That man was the baron's brother. Weren't brothers supposed to help each other? Then the sight of Meinhard lying prone on the ground with the Baron's brother about to stab him jolted Bente into action. His longbow was ready anyway. Pulling an arrow from his quiver and setting it on the bowstring was an oft-practised movement and took but two heart beats. Taking aim was second nature to him, even in the unsteady light, and just as the villain was about to stab poor Meinhard, Bente let fly.

A longbow made of yew requires a strong arm but is a most powerful weapon. An iron-tipped arrow cannot be stopped even by a chainmail hauberk or a leather brigandine, and even the combination of both did not save the traitor against Bente's shot. So great was the force that the tip of the arrow came out of the man's back, piercing four layers of armour. The Crusader was not dead yet, and he turned to face the new threat. This was too good an opportunity and Bente did not waste it. A second arrow was on its way before the traitor had even seen the collier, and it went through the left eye and deep into the brain, felling the would-be Cain on the spot.

Bente breathed his relief and ran over to Meinhard who was trying to get up. Bente helped him and together they rushed to cut the Baron from his bindings. He sank down on the soft ground moaning with pain. His hands were pressed to his stomach and there was blood seeping through his fingers.

"We need to carry him somewhere where he be helped," Meinhard said dubiously.

"My cabin," Bente answered. "We're not too far away and we have a girl in the village who knows healing. You better stay with the Baron. I'll run back and get the others. We can have him at my cabin by sunrise."

He ran off without waiting for Meinhard's reply. He had to walk with great care, lest he stepped into a hole in the ground and broke his leg. Still, he made good time. When he found the camp most of the men were fast asleep, but his shouting woke them quickly.

"We have found the Baron. He's injured. Come with me! We must carry him back. Bring those lances! We can make a stretcher from them."

He prodded and cajoled them until the whole group started moving. They were still sleepy and some of them ran into trees on the way, but by the time they reached the other camp site they had got the cobwebs out of their brains.

An excited babble started when they saw the dead crusader with two of Bente's arrows sticking from his armoured chest and from his eye, but Meinhard who'd had some time to collect himself issued his orders with authority. Four men lifted the makeshift stretcher with the Baron on their shoulders and began the march through the trees. Every quarter mile the carriers were rotated. The going became tougher when they neared the fringes of the forest because the underbrush was dense. Fortunately, Bente found one of the trails where his horses had dragged felled trees to his cabin and then the carriers had an easier time.

The two youngest men were sent ahead to alert Isaac the Jew that his daughter's healing art was urgently needed. The rest of the group moved slower but they reached Bente's cabin with the first rays of the sun.

None of the men had ever been to Bente's cabin and they looked around with great interest while the Baron was carried through the door and laid on Bente's bed. He was still alive and moaning softly when they lifted him off the stretcher.

The tired men helped themselves to some water from Bente's well, and he gave them bread while they waited for the young Jewess to show.

-------

Rune the Smith let his eyes roam over the spacious and well appointed cabin. His thoughts were going in a similar direction as his daughter's had a few days ago. Bente must be making good money with his trade. Unlike his daughter, Rune found this infuriating. A collier was no real craftsman. He had no right to earn so much money and to have such a roomy cabin. At least, the lout would not come and pester Lotta anymore.

The sounds of hoofbeats made him look up and he saw the Jew with his daughter. Another family he would rather not have in the village. Isaac was a smart trader. Dealing with him, Rune always felt taken advantage of although he could not find fault with the terms. It seemed like Isaac did nothing more than buy bloom from Rune and sell ore to him, and yet he could make a living. Then there was his daughter, Ruth. Her delicate beauty rivalled that of his daughter Lotta. A girl of the lost tribe should not look so tempting. Whenever Rune saw her he felt lust for her, yet as a good Christian he knew that lying with a Jewess was a mortal sin lest she had received the baptism. It was not right for these two to live in the village.

There came the corporal, Meinhard, and allowed them to return to their village. Only two young men were detailed to rush to the castle with the news that the Baron had been found and that he was wounded. The rest, including Rune, returned, glad for the chance to earn their bread again.

-------

When Ruth and her father arrived she was led into Bente's cabin. With dexterity she cut away the vest and the pants to reveal the stab wound. The bleeding had slowed down, but Bente could see the jagged hole where a tine of the antler had gored the Baron. Ruth probed the wound for a while, obviously trying to gauge the depth of the puncture. She asked what had caused the wound and Meinhard told her of the stag antler.

"Was it clean or soiled, that antler?" she asked calmly.

Meinhard shrugged at this, but Bente thought he knew the answer.

"I think it may have lain on the ground for a while. I saw mud and soil on it."

The girl made a grimace. "I must burn the wound then, lest it will mortify. Can you heat the poker? I need a leather strap, too, for the Baron to bite on. And please bring some water to boil!"

Bente rushed to do her bidding and when the water in his precious copper kettle boiled, Ruth measured some leaves from a small pouch into a cup and added the boiling water. After steeping the leaves for a while she poured the brownish liquid into another cup and made the Baron drink from it. He was barely conscious, but when he drank the tea, his head rolled to the side.

"Give me the hot poker now," Ruth ordered and Bente complied.

Twice, the girl breathed deeply, and while five men held down the body of the Baron, she stuck the poker into the wound. The burnt flesh hissed as she cleaned the wound thoroughly, burning away the poisonous residue of the forest soil. The sickly stench of burnt flesh filled the cabin while the body of the unconscious man jerked violently in the hold of the men.

Finally Ruth was satisfied. The wound had started to bleed again which she took as good sign. With a needle and strings of deer sinew, she tied knots to close the wound. Then she applied a scented tallow over the wound and covered it with a clean linen cloth. Wiping her hands with a wet cloth she looked at Meinhard.

"Your Lord must sleep now. I must look after him closely for the next days. Can I sleep somewhere nearby?"

Meinhard looked at Bente. The Baron was in Bente's bed and no other beds could he seen.

"My old bed is up there under the rafters," Bente said hesitantly, pointing at the loft that extended over two thirds of the cabin. "I also put Erwin's bed up there. You can go up and see whether either is acceptable."

Ruth looked at Bente in surprise. In her perspective, the question was rather whether she was acceptable. Most gentiles would object to a Jewess sleeping under the same roof.

"Are you quite certain, Collier?" she asked.

He nodded, nonplussed, but then he understood. Being an outcast himself he could relate to her fear. He gave her a friendly smile.

"I am. I trade with your Uncle Saul in town. I like him fine, but you are a far better sight than him."

Ruth blushed and looked down. Bente was contrite.

"Forgive me my uncouth jesting, fair daughter of Isaac. I'm but a simple collier and not used to speak to pretty maidens."

This put a smile on her face. "There is nought to forgive, Collier. I am just ill-accustomed to receiving flattery, let alone from a Gentile."

"Gentile or Jew, they all will agree that your beauty far surpasses that of your uncle."

Ruth just rolled up her eyes to the chuckle of Meinhard and climbed the sturdy ladder up to the loft.

"May I have the use of the smaller bed, to the left?" she called down.

"Take it. I shall hang some blankets from the rafters, to shield you from view," Bente responded.

"I thank you for that, Collier," she answered nicely.

She climbed down again and went out to find her father. "Father, I need to watch over the Baron. Bente the Collier has offered me a bed under his rafters to sleep on. Would you send out food for me and a pot?"

"I have pots and pans, and food aplenty," Bente protested from the door.

Isaac smiled at the collier. "Bente, the customs of my tribe dictate that we abstain from some foods you Gentiles eat, namely any meat from impure animals. We mustn't use pots and pans from you either, for you have cooked improper food in them."

Bente was astonished; this was news to him and he tried to comprehend.

"Does any of your cooking make my pots improper for my use?"

"No, Collier. You Gentiles have no such restrictions."

"Then your daughter may use one of my new pots. It has never been in use. I have lentils, peas, rye and wheat, and some carrots. There is no pork or bacon in my cabin, for I snare hares and rabbits for meat."

Isaac smiled at his daughter. "I see no conflict here, daughter. It is a gracious offer and I permit you to accept it."

Ruth considered only briefly. Then she nodded. "I see that you have chickens. I can make a chicken soup that will be good for all of us?"

Bente nodded. "I can spare one or two," he said. "The Baron can also drink some broth. It will give him strength."

He was already off to his small flock of chicken carrying a hatchet. Ruth looked after him with a smile.

"He is nice and funny, Father, for a Gentile."

"Yes, he is. Saul says he is much smarter than he lets people know. Be careful, though. Nothing can come of a friendship 'tween Jew and Gentile."

"I was not thinking of him that way, Father. It is just nice to have someone to speak to. There are no people of our tribe in the village, and there are few people who will talk to me."

"I know you are a good girl, Ruth. Enough of that. Is there anything else you will need for the Baron? 'Tis a perfect chance to ingratiate him to our tribe, and we'll never know when that will come to pass."

"Some more clean linen would be helpful and some rendered deer tallow. The Collier should have plenty of wood ashes for making lye, and I would make some soap for cleaning the Baron's wound."

"I shall send it out, daughter. You have all you need?"

"Yes, Father. Tend to your trade now; I shall be fine here."

"Shalom alechem, Daughter," Isaac nodded, turning to leave.

"Shalom, Father," Ruth called after him before she turned to enter Bente's cabin again.

Meinhard excused himself and left the cabin. Sitting at the side of the bed Ruth felt for the wounded man's pulse and tested his temperature. A while later, Bente came in, a plucked and gutted chicken dangling from his fist.

"I'll start the water," he told her.

Ruth quickly stood. "Just show me the pot and where to get water," she told him.

Bente opened a large chest and produced a well made copper pot with a thin coating of tin on the inside. Ruth had one long look at it before she smiled.

"You bought this from Uncle Saul," she stated.

"Why, yes, I did."

"All your things are new and well made, Bente. Your cabin is sturdy and large, too, and fit for a family. Do you have a bride yet?"

Bente cast down his eyes, shaking his head, no.

"Is there no girl in the village that might catch your fancy?"

She could swear he was blushing now under the reddish hair and beard.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked. Is it somebody who is taken?"

Bente again shook his head.

"But why ... Oh, she does not like you?"

He shrugged. "It does not matter. Her father would not consider me. She has better suitors. Remember, I'm but a collier. I never knew my parents, either."

Suddenly, Ruth understood. He could talk but of one girl. "Have you told Lotta about your feelings?" she asked softly.

His eyes opened wide. "How can you know? Has she told you anything?"

"No, I'm sorry, Bente. There is but one girl whose father would not consider you and who is pretty enough to catch your fancy, that's how I knew. You are right. There is not much to win in telling her. Poor Bente."

He looked at her with distrust at first. There was no mockery in her brown eyes, only sympathy. He relaxed.

"What about you?" he asked.

"Oh! I have no-one. Not even a boy to fancy from afar. See, there is no-one of my tribe in the village, and even in town, there are only six families. None of the young men is unmarried. At least you have somebody to dream of."

They left it at that and Ruth started to cook a chicken soup. She set aside some broth for the wounded Baron and added grain and roots to the soup for the rest of them. It was a rich and filling meal. Both Bente and Meinhard praised her cooking. Afterwards, Ruth tended the Baron again. He was slowly coming to. The effects of the sleeping drought were wearing off, and he seemed to be in pain from his wound.

Ruth brewed yet another concoction to lessen the pain, and when the wounded man finally came to she made him sip from the cup. He lay back then, exhausted, and fell asleep again.

When the light faded, Bente readied his new oil lamp and hung it over the sick bed. During the night, Meinhard kept guard alerting Ruth whenever his lord woke up. She would feed him some more of her pain-killing tea then. Come the morning the Baron was clearer when he woke, and he asked Meinhard what had happened.

"What happened to my brother? How did you get me away?"

"We, well, to tell the truth, the Collier saw a fire far away and alerted me. We decided to have a look, and we saw you tied to a tree with your brother, beg your pardon, about to stab you again with that broken antler. I drew my sword and charged him but he bested me, nigh on broke my chin he did. I was on my back and he was about to run me through with his sword when the Collier shot him. First arrow went through his chest and clean through his heart. He turned and the second arrow went through his eye. Damn good shooting, Lord, and as sure as there is a purgatory waiting for your brother, the Collier saved both our lives; aye, that he did."

"You say the Collier? Why was he with you?"

"Your brother, Lord, made like he wanted the forest searched for you. He pressed the Collier and twenty villagers into service. Bente knows the forest well. He saw the fire and led me through the darkness. Worst mistake your brother made bringing that man into the play."

The Baron shook his head. "Bruno always had a mean streak in him. I would have never guessed though that he'd try to kill his own brother. Oh, who's the maid who keeps feeding me this accursed tea?"

"It's the Jewess Ruth, daughter of Isaac the Trader. She knows healing. She burnt your wound, aye she did, though many a man turned pale and sick, she burnt it. The antler was soiled, and she feared morfi ... mortification."

"Does she know what she's doing? She seems young."

"That she is, Lord, but the villagers swear by her, and she was the only healer I could find..."

"You did well, Meinhard. I..."

"You should not exert yourself, Lord," Ruth's gentle voice interrupted them.

The Baron looked up and into the concerned eyes of the young Jewess.

"I have need to know these things, Daughter of Isaac. Meinhard says you burnt the wound?"

"Yes, Lord, I feared soil was in the wound. This would cause grave mortification and the cramping disease. Burning the wound helps against that."

"Where did you learn the healing arts, Maid?"

"From my mother, Lord. She was well known for it."

The Baron lay back. "So be it. You seem to know your healing."

"I have some chicken broth, Lord. Would you care for it?"

"Yes, by my troth! I'm right starved."

Ruth busied herself at the cooking hearth heating the broth, while the Baron kept asking questions.

"Whose dwelling is this, Meinhard?"

"It's the Collier's cabin. It was the closest to the place where we found you. I have sent for the castle to get more men here and your servants. 'Twill take some days until you can make the journey home."

"I guess it will. Where is he?"

"Out, plying his trade, Lord. There's little he can do in here."

The rich broth Ruth gave the Baron put some more life into him, and he watched with interest when the young woman changed the bandage. He noted the stitches with curiosity, but he also realised the severity of the wound.

A little while later, the cabin was hailed from the outside and Meinhard went to the door. Outside was the smith, Rune, with his daughter Lotta.

"Beg your pardon, Corporal," the smith started. "I know Isaac's daughter to be here, but my daughter Lotta would ask if more help is needed. She's a good cook and strong, too."

The girl looked none to happy, Meinhard noticed. She was pretty, though, no beautiful, with her fair, braided hair and her clear, blue eyes. She had a strong chin, an even nose, and a full-lipped mouth with fine, white teeth.

Meinhard sighed. He knew what the smith planned. He was bringing his daughter in hopes that the Baron might fancy her. Meinhard knew better. The Baron often fancied peasant girls, but he tired of them quickly. It was none of his beeswax, though.

"Sure, she can help," he said. "Come on in, lass. The Baron is awake."

-------

Gunther, Baron of Birkenhain, tried to sit up a little. He had heard the words spoken outside, and the situation was not new to him. All the time pretentious villagers tried to push their pretty daughters on him, in the vain hope that their – often perceived – beauty might win them the hand of the Baron. Gunther had been known to take advantage of such offerings, dallying with the girls for a few weeks or even months. He had always taken care of their needs when their time ended, mostly due to the children he sired. He would not marry a peasant girl, but he would find them husbands from among his officers and retainers, good husbands who appreciated their pretty wives and the generous dowry enough to raise the Baron's bastard children as their own.

When the door opened, however, Gunther inhaled deeply. The girl was truly beautiful! Rarely ever had Gunther seen a face like hers. Her body, clearly clad in her best dress, was a sight to behold, too. She was just past the verge of womanhood.

"Lord Gunther, my father bade me come here to tend your needs," she spoke in a low-pitched voice that sent shivers through Gunther's body.

"What be your name, girl?"

"I am Lotta, Rune the Smith's daughter, Lord."

"Well, Lotta, I am but a guest in this dwelling, but I trust the good Collier will not raise objections if I allow you to stay and help the Maid Ruth."

The girl nodded. Gunther could not help but notice the lack of joy in her eyes, and he realised that this lass was not here to pursue her own ambition, but to satisfy her father's. He felt pity for the girl and anger at her father.

Just then, Ruth entered through the back door, a bucket of charcoal in her hand. She noticed Lotta and hesitated.

"My father offered that I help to take care of the Baron," Lotta hastened to explain.

"I see," Ruth answered sadly. She turned to Gunther. "Do you wish for me to return to my father, Lord?"

"Why would I wish that?" Gunther asked, confused.

"You have a more acceptable caretaker now, Lord."

Gunther saw Lotta's that eyes flew open in anguish, and that her head shook frantically.

"Nay, my gentle guardian, stay!" he answered quickly. "The Maid Lotta came to offer her help, not to replace you. Isn't that so?"

"Yes, indeed, Ruth," Lotta hastened to say. "I do not have your knowledge of healing. I only came to help with cooking and cleaning, and at my father's behest."

"Oh," the dark-haired girl said, blushing. "Will you help me with the noon meal? The Baron will need some nourishing soup or stew."

In a slightly embarrassed silence the two young women joined forces to prepare a stew. They were a striking contrast, Gunther found. The young Jewess had the darker skin and black hair of her tribe, and where Lotta's hair was straight, Ruth's was curly and unruly, and her braid frayed. The delicate, dark features of Ruth were nevertheless strangely pleasing if unaccustomed to his eye.

The heavy step of horses could be heard from outside, and Meinhard, ever vigilant, peered out of the door.

"It's the Collier, Lord, bringing in a tree trunk with his horses."

Grating sounds like wood on wood could be heard now.

"He has pulled the trunk on this huge sawhorse, Lord," Meinhard kept up the reporting. "Should I call him in, Lord?"

"Nay, Meinhard, let the man earn his livelihood. Ask him in for the noon meal, that's early enough. I must offer him reward. Sound him out a little, Meinhard. Find out his fondest wish."

Soon, Gunther heard the noise of a saw. The Collier was cutting the log in disks, he suspected. It must be back breaking work, to cut disk after disk from a tree trunk, yet the man never seemed to pause until noontime when Meinhard went out to bade the man join them for a meal.

He must have washed, Gunther noticed. His hair was wet, as was his beard, but his skin was clean and he wore clean leather pants and a buckskin vest when he entered. As prescribed, he knelt before the bed. Gunther felt awkward over that.

"Get on your feet already, Collier! I heard of what you did for me and I thank you. A fitting reward will come forth for you, but for now sit with Meinhard and the Maid Ruth while Lotta will help me eat."

The Baron's keen perception saw the Collier flinch when he saw Lotta, and he was certain to see a blush on the girl's face. She spoke up.

"My father sent me to help care for the Baron, Bente. I hope you will not mind my presence. I am sorry for the slight I inflicted on you at my father's will."

The tall man could only nod silently in response, but Gunther saw his eyes. They were devouring the sight of the girl. The collier had a monstrous crush on Lotta. A hopeless infatuation, Gunther realised. The girl's father had set higher goals for his daughter than a collier. Just as hopeless as the collier's, he added wryly.

Lotta served him food in a tin bowl while Ruth, Meinhard and the collier sat at the sturdy pine wood table, eating the stew from similar tin bowls. The collier's cabin seemed well appointed with household items. When she had served him, Lotta sat at the table, too.

Right after the meal, the collier mumbled an excuse and left the cabin. Soon after they could hear the saw again. Later that afternoon the sawing stopped, and instead they heard the sound of an axe as Bente was splitting the wood.

Gunther saw Lotta standing in the doorway watching the man. When she noticed his look, she hurried to the bedside.

"Is there any thing you need, Lord?"

"No, I am quite comfortable, my lass. He is a hard working man, isn't he?"

"Yes, that and he is always helpful and friendly. All the men in the village look down on him because he's a collier and nobody sees the hard work he puts in."

"You slighted him, too?"

"Not out of my will, Lord. There was the celebration at the Solstice and I had promised him a dance, but my father forbade it. It made me feel so bad. It must be terrible to be put down by everybody all your life."

"I cannot imagine, of course," Gunther said thoughtfully.

"No you wouldn't, Lord," she agreed in a sad tone.

Shortly before supper time the hoofbeat of many horses could be heard and Meinhard announced the arrival of the Baron's followers. A moment later the small cabin was filling with men who were crowding around the bed. They all talked at the same time, asking questions and telling of their own efforts to find him. Above the din Gunther suddenly picked up the desperate squeals of women.

"Quiet!" he roared. Quiet!"

The shouting hurt him, but the babble stopped and now he could hear the sounds of struggle from the back of the cabin.

"What is going on? Where are the maids?" he asked angrily.

With a sheepish grin, the men stood back and he could see the two girls, their hair in disarray, their dresses torn open, and with frightened looks on their faces.

"Who dared molest these maidens?" the baron snarled angrily.

Five of his soldiers stood with bowed heads while the others tried to distance themselves from them.

"I shall deal with you right away. Captain, have you no control over your men?"

"My Lord, but they're just peasant girls," the Captain replied, nonplussed.

A second later he stepped back under the angry stare from his lord.

"I owe my life to their care!" Gunther snapped. "I certainly could not rely on your protection. You were drunk out of your mind when my brother made his move. Now you burst into this dwelling like you own it and molest the ones who really helped me. I have a mind to relieve you of your post! Out, now! Those five will receive two dozen lashes each, and I want to hear that whip! Leave six men of my body guard under Meinhard and return to the castle with the rest! Out of my sight!"

Within a few heartbeats only six of the soldiers remained together with two elderly courtiers, Gunther's chamberlain and his senior body servant. Gunther was just about to address the two frightened girls when angry cries sounded from outside. Meinhard ran for the door and began to shout.

"Stop that at once! Leave him be!" A babble of protests sounded in reply. "Leave him be, I say! Do you wish to incur our Lord's wrath?"

A moment later Meinhard pushed a Bente inside who looked the worse for wear.

"He tried to keep the horses out of his vegetables, Lord, and the Captain wanted to run him through for it."

"What happened?"

"We'll have to wait for the Captain to wake up to ask him," Meinhard grinned. "Of course, the others ganged up on him."

"Did you suffer any wounds, Collier?" Gunther asked.

"No, Lord, just bruises, but I gave back as much as I took." Then the grin morphed into fear and then wild fury when he saw Lotta's appearance. Meinhard had to restrain him with all his strength to keep him from charging out of the door.

"Meinhard, you will meet out the punishment. That worthless drunkard, Eberhard, is no longer Captain of my guard. Disarm him and send him on his way! Have those five whipped, and make sure they all know it's their death if I ever see them in my lands again!"

Meinhard nodded and left the cabin, followed by the six soldiers who had remained. Gunther finally had the time to address the girls.

"Lotta and you, Ruth, fear no more and forgive the insult you suffered from the hands of my men. I feel shame over their deeds and I shall offer restitution to you both. "Chamberlain! Send for the castle and your wife! Have her send two bales of good cloth and the seamstress to make new dresses for these maids!"

The chamberlain nodded and quickly ran from the cabin to charge one of the returning soldiers with the message. Meanwhile, Ruth had recovered somewhat, but Lotta was still fearful and trembling. Gunther motioned for Bente to step closer.

"Collier, methinks this to be a good time to comfort the girl," he advised the battered man.

-------

Bente watched with dismay as the large group of horsemen rode up to his cabin without regard to his small garden. Hesitantly, he put down his axe and walked slowly over to the cabin. He could hear shouts and other noises from within and he winced at the thought of the havoc these men would wreak on his home.

Suddenly, there was silence though and he could hear the sharp voice of the Baron issuing orders. He walked closer to hear what was being said when he saw one of the horses eating its fill on his cabbage. Angrily, he walked over and took the bridle pulling the balking animal out of his garden.

"Keep your dirty hands off my horse, dog!" came the angry voice of the burly, red-faced Captain of the Guard.

"It is my garden that your horse trampled," Bente replied, his temper rising.

"Talking back, dog? I'll teach you!"

To Bente's shock the man pulled his sword. The other soldiers who had poured from the cabin stood by and grinned. Bente was unarmed and he saw but one chance: to evade the thrust and run into the cabin. The Baron could not want him dead; he had spoken of gratitude after all.

When the Captain raised his sword to strike Bente, the Collier quickly stepped forward. He gripped the sword hand of the Captain with his left and smashed his fisted right hand against the man's chin. The captain fell like a sack of grain.

Bente turned and ran for the cabin but the other soldiers were upon him in an instant, beating and kicking him. He was saved by the fact that too many of them attacked him, and many blows were blocked by other attackers. He struck out with both fists himself, repeatedly connecting with faces and stomachs until Meinhard's angry commands made the soldiers stop.

The corporal's strong arms pulled him into the cabin and he heard an agitated Baron give angry orders. Then, Bente's look fell on Lotta and his heart almost stopped. There were scratches on her cheeks, her dress was torn open, and her neat braid was pulled apart. Those swine! They had attacked her! With murder in his heart, Bente turned around. He wanted to kill each of these brutes, wanted to tear them apart. Meinhard's strong arms held him fast until the Baron's voice penetrated through his rage.

He was still standing there, panting heavily, when the Baron motioned for him to stand closer.

"Collier, methinks this to be a good time to comfort the girl," the Baron said in a low voice, jerking his head towards the still trembling Lotta.

Taking a deep breath Bente nodded. Lotta jerked when his hand touched her shoulder. When she saw him, however, she exhaled. He saw her tear-streaked face, her fearful eyes, and his rage waned like magic, being replaced by tenderness.

"Have no fear anymore, sweet Lotta," he whispered. "I shan't let anyone hurt you, I promise!"

"How could they?" Lotta cried.

"Soldiers!" Bente spat. "They always think whatever they see is theirs, and they take it at sword's point. The Lord is just, though, and he'll have them punished and banished from his lands. You are safe now."

She looked at him, full of desperation. "No! They ... they ruined me! That foul man, he had his hand under my skirt and tore my maidenhood with his fingers! It hurts fiercely."

Her fearfully whispered words washed over Bente and he felt the blood leave his face. His hands trembled with a fury he had never known. All the years of disdain, the slights, the scorn he had encountered, combined with that latest outrage. With a Herculean effort, he controlled his rage.

"Lotta, fear not the future! Tomorrow I shall speak out for you, but tonight I shall avenge you," he whispered hoarsely.

Lotta saw his eyes and her trembling stopped. She took a deep breath and looked deep into his eyes.

"If you avenge me, Bente, I shall be yours but for the asking, even if we have to run from my father."

"So be it, my love!" he answered. "What proof will you need?"

"Just your word, brave Bente. But take heed! More than anything I pray for your safe return."

"Sweet girl! Let us go out and see them caned! I need to see their faces, for later."

He led the girl to the door. Meinhard was overseeing the punishment. Bente saw the Captain, without sword or cloak and bound hand and foot on the ground. Five soldiers had been stripped of their hauberks and tunics, and their hands were tied above their heads. Bente memorised each face while five guardsmen stood ready with sturdy hazel twigs. On Meinhard's count, the first lashes were administered, to the shrieks of the bound men. Twice Meinhard counted to a full dozen. Red welts criss-crossed over the punished men's backs when they were cut loose. Bente noted with grim satisfaction that they were given only their tunics and knives, but no other weapon.

Then, while the majority of the soldiers mounted their horses to return to town and castle, the delinquents were sent on their way eastward, away from the Baron's lands. Gently, Bente led Lotta back into the cabin and let her sit at the table.

"Ruth can show you your bed on the loft. I shan't need one tonight, and you should sleep." He turned to the Baron. "Lord, I need to look after my snares. Will you excuse me?"

"Go hence, Collier, but be you careful! Those men who were punished may have revenge in their hearts."

"I shall be careful, Lord, and prepared," he answered and picked his longbow and quiver from a peg. "With your leave, I shall carry my longbow."

The sheath with the long hunting knife was fastened to his belt and he left the cabin. He turned to the South immediately, knowing that the path he wound find there would converge two miles away with the one that led eastward from his cabin. His anger lent him strength and stamina, and he walked briskly in an effort to arrive at the fork ahead of the miscreants. Indeed, arriving at the fork he saw no evidence of their passing. Darkness was approaching and with great care Bente walked along the path, back towards his cabin.

He had to walk almost the entire distance before he smelled the smoke of a small fire. The men had settled just out of sight of the cabin. Bente was fully alert, his hand on the heft of his knife, as he slowly approached the fire. He counted six men, sitting around the flames and breathed his relief. They had not bothered with sentries. Very carefully he inched closer with all the patience and stealth of a good hunter. The men talked loudly and in anger, and their angry babble covered what little noise he made. Ten paces from the fire he stopped behind a bush to listen to their talk.

"We wait until sunrise. In the early morning mist we can get close without being seen. They have weapons and we don't, so we need to surprise them. I say we stay here for the night. They won't go after us in the dark." That was the former Captain.

"Can't we take the cunts with us? It's a waste to just fuck them and kill them. I know a fellow who runs a tavern in Erlingen lands. They'd be worth a pretty penny to him as virgins." That was one of the men, a tall fellow.

Another man, swarthy and pock-marked, barked a derisive laugh. "The blond'un, she's no virgin anymore. Had my finger in her all the way."

Quietly, Bente marked the swarthy man for later.

"You idiot! You had to ruin her? We need gold to get away from here, and the cunts would have been worth a lot."

"Aw, give it a rest already," the Captain dismissed him. "Who pays money for a Jew girl, I ask? We can't let them live, fellows. Those nobles stick together. If ever it comes out we killed the Baron they'll hunt us down. Nay, we go in, kill the men, stick it to the wenches, and then burn the place to the ground."

"Still, it's a..."

"Damned shame, I know! Shut up now!"

Bente had heard enough. Into the ground before him, illuminated weakly by the light of the fire, he stuck five arrows. He put the first on his string and sighted in on the former Captain. Holding his breath he let fly.

With rapid precision, he followed through with four more arrows. Only then did he survey the scene. All five arrows had been hits. Three men lay still, thrown on their backs with arrows in their chests. The former Captain had an arrow in his throat and he clawed for it with bloodied hands. A fourth man was writhing in pain, staring at the arrow that had pierced his guts.

Bente had not shot the swarthy soldier, the one who had broken Lotta's maidenhood with his fingers. That man stood transfixed trying to see beyond the shine of the fire, his hand with his short knife trembling. He almost whimpered when Bente stepped into the light, the long hunting knife in his hand.

"Which of your hands did you stick into my bride?" Bente asked in a deep, feral growl.

With a sobbing cry the soldier turned and ran away from the fire. Bente was after him in a flash. The man was tearing blindly through the brush, not looking where he ran, and soon his feet caught in a root and he fell headlong.

A heartbeat later Bente knelt on the man's back pinning him to the ground. He gripped both hands of the soldiers and bent the arms back cruelly. He sniffed at the hands. From the soldiers left hand he picked up the mixed smell of dried blood and woman.

The man flopped helplessly under him as Bente sharp knife cut through the soldier's left wrist. His cries were muffled because his face was pressed into the soft forest soil, but Bente did not care anyway. He sawed away at the wrist until the hand came loose. At this point the soldier's struggle became weaker already, both for loss of blood and for lack of air, and Bente finished him off with a crushing blow to the neck.

Breathing heavily with the exertion, he collected his trophy and dragged the man back to the fireplace. The Captain had stopped moving, but the gut shot man was still groaning. Bente quickly ended his suffering with his knife and collected his arrows from the dead men.

For the next hour Bente worked hard to move the bodies away from the path. He dropped them into a deep hole left behind by the roots of a toppled tree. He also used a leafed branch to extinguish all his footprints around the path.

At the creek, a few hundred paces downstream from his dwelling, he stripped off his clothing and rinsed it in the cool water. Then he submerged himself in the running water, washing off the blood of the killed men. Lastly, he washed his arrows. He started a small fire and hung his clothes from branches to dry, sitting naked at the fire until the dawn lighted the eastern sky.

With a shudder, he pulled on his still moist and cold clothes and extinguished the fire. He quickly examined a few snares in the vicinity and was lucky to find two hares caught in them. With those he returned to the cabin just when the sun rose over the tree tops.

A sentry challenged him and Bente answered. With a friendly smile, the guardsman beckoned him forward.

"You're a right guy, Collier. You put that good-for-nothing Captain in his place."

"Nobody calls me a dog," Bente answered calmly.

"Right, friend. You have a fine place here and an honest trade. Nothing to be ashamed of, I say."

Bente entered the cabin as quiet as possible, but Lotta was awake already stirring in a pot. She looked up and flew into his arms.

"I'm so glad you're back," she whispered urgently. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"No, not more than yesterday," he answered.

Steering Lotta into a corner where nobody could see them, he pulled the cut-off hand from his haversack.

"It is the hand that insulted you," he told her calmly. "The rest of him is food for the vermin."

Lotta turned pale and she took one ragged breath before she had herself under control.

"The others?" she asked.

"They still have their hands, but they won't tell stories; that is for sure."

"The captain, too?"

Bente just nodded and Lotta pressed his arm.

"Will you really have me, Bente? I am no fitting bride anymore."

"I always loved you, Lotta, and I shall never stop loving you for as long as I shall breathe."

She had a pained expression on her face. "Bente, I shall never lie to you. I care for you, and I will be a good wife to you. I don't know you enough yet to tell you that I love you. Give me some time to find out about my feelings. The thought of you and I is just so new to me. I'm sorry."

"I understand. It's new to me, too. Until yesterday I could never hope. Should I speak for you with your father?"

"I thought about it, Bente. The Baron says he owes you his life. Mayhap he could speak to my father? Surely my father would do nothing to displease the Baron."

"We can ask him. Let me put on dry clothes. Then I'll help you with the morning meal."

"Oh no, Bente! That is my duty from now. You put on dry clothes, betrothed, and I shall ready the table."

She shooed him up to the loft where he quickly changed into a dry tunic and pants. When he climbed down the Baron was awake.

"Good morning, Lord," Bente said politely.

"Good morning, Collier!" the Baron smiled. "I take it you could console the maid? She looks in good mood this morning."

"Aye, Lord." Bente could not help but smile happily. "She allowed me to ask her father for her hand."

"Ah! And do you think he may agree?"

"He may balk at the idea, Lord."

"I see. Would it help if I spoke the man?"

"That may make the difference, Lord."

The Baron smiled smugly, but then he sobered. "Pray, Collier, what made the maid change her mind so rapidly?"

Bente bit his lip. "Lord, I beg you: for her sake, do not make me answer that!"

"So be it," the Baron grinned. "You keep your secrets."

-------

Lotta knew her way with pots and pans, that much was clear after the breakfast. She made a point to serve Bente just after the Baron who joined them at the table for the first time. Ruth was silent, but she watched the subtle interplay closely.

After breakfast, Ruth inspected the Baron's wounds and found their state satisfactory. She also insisted on seeing Bente's numerous bruises and cuts, and she closed one gash with stitches.

"You should have shown them to me yesterday, Bente," she admonished him. When he did not answer, she pressed his hand. "Lotta told me everything. Thank you."

Finally released by Ruth, Bente took his horses and retrieved the mass of branches from the felled beech tree. When he started to cut the branches into handy disks, Lotta sat in front of the cabin and watched him. From time to time she brought him fresh water to drink. Her whole demeanour was that of a caring wife.

After a brief noon meal Bente again took his horses and hauled back a large bunch of branches. Those, too, were cut and split by evening, and there was a sizeable pile of beech wood in the charred clearing to the west of the cabin.

The afternoon was sunny, and the Baron sat on a chair in front of the cabin watching Bente work steadily, cutting, splitting and hauling the wood towards the clearing. His soldiers set up a roomy tent close to the cabin where they could sleep until their Lord was ready to ride home. The Baron Gunther had decided that he would return to town and castle riding his huge charger and not on a stretcher like an invalid.

The same pattern held for the next two days. The Baron grew stronger with each day while Bente's wood pile grew steadily. Asking Bente the Baron found out that the pile would have to grow to over ten feet in height before Bente would seal it with clay and sod. That would take a week or more.

On the third day, a wagon arrived bringing the Baron's seamstress to the cabin. The chamberlain's wife, a sturdy matron, was with them. She was a kind woman who had no children of her own. She fussed over both girls while the seamstress took their measurements and helped them with the housekeeping.

On the Baron's order the seamstress also made a fine new tunic and knee-length breeches for Bente. Chuckling the Baron insisted that Bente needed proper clothing for his impending wedding. The seamstress worked hard at the clothing, but the chamberlain's wife helped and so did Lotta and Ruth. Within two days the work was done.

The next day was a Saturday and in the afternoon Rune the Smith approached the cabin with his cart. Seeing him, Lotta steeled herself and stood tall. Rune climbed down from the cart and seeing the Baron sit outside made a beeline for the cabin.

"My Lord! I am gladdened to see you recovered to good health! I trust you found my daughter's care to your liking?"

"Are you Rune, the Smith?"

"Yes, indeed, Lord, at your service!"

The Baron smile mischievously.

"Your daughter is a fine girl and I have grown to value her. She'll make a fine wife to some lucky man."

"Will she not! Beg your pardon, Lord! Will you require her for longer then?"

"Not me, Smith, but a dear friend and trusted servant has fallen for her in those few days, and I would ask you to hear his offer for he has my full support in his suit."

The Smith beamed with pride. "I shall gladly hear him speak out for her then, oh Lord. My child could not hope for a better husband than a friend of your Lordship."

"You have my personal gratitude, Smith! I care much for my friend's well-being."

"Is your ... friend in presence, Lord?"

"Why yes, he is. Step up, Collier! The Smith will hear your suit!"

For a moment they all feared for Rune's life. His face turned a deep purple and the veins in his temples throbbed. Unfazed, Bente stood his ground.

"Rune, Master Smith, I speak for your daughter Lotta. I ask for her hand in marriage and I pledge kinship to her family from the day of our wedding on."

"You ... but you..." Rune stuttered helplessly. He dared not deny the Baron, yet to give his cherished daughter to a collier, and one who had so brazenly defied him, seemed impossible.

"As I said, he is my trusted servant and I owe him with my life, Smith," the Baron spoke with a slight edge to his voice and the Smith gulped.

"Of course, if our revered Lord vouches and speaks for you, Bente, I shall be happy indeed to give my consent."

"See, 'tis but a happy ending to this sordid episode. Today's Saturday. I should like to witness the wedding and give a blessing of my own before I return. Can you speak the priest and arrange for the wedding a week hence, Smith?"

"I can, of course, oh Lord," Rune answered in a voice strangled with suppressed anger.

"The drink will be on me," Bente declared proudly. "I can ride my wagon over to Tosdalen Abbey. The monks there brew a good ale."

It was true that the Tosdalen monastery produced the best ale far and wide. Rune's mood improved a little. Drink was the greatest cost at a wedding. If the collier would pay for the drink that would ease the burden for the Smith. Finally he remembered that his daughter had not spoken a word yet, and the bad conscience washed over him.

"Lotta, daughter, I have not asked you. Are you willing to tie the knot with the Collier?"

Lotta gave her father a friendly smile, the first in many days.

"Yes, Father, I am willing. I have grown to know Bente and I cannot hope for a better man, certainly not for a man who will love me more."

With that, she stood close to Bente and let him put his arm around her waist. A mischievous grin appeared on Lotta's lips.

"Think of it, Father! Your daughter's husband should let you buy coal at a good price."

Bente grinned, too.

"Yes, but you have to send your apprentice with a cart to pick it up. After all, I shan't need reason to visit your house anymore once Lotta is married to me."

Rune blushed a little, but he put up a brave face. "You won't return with me, Daughter?"

"Not today, Father. The Baron needs my service, after all."

"Oh yes, this is her reason," Baron Gunther laughed good-naturedly. "Pray, Smith, tell Isaac the Trader that his daughter Ruth will be returned to his house with ample reward and goodwill by mid-week. She insists on staying until she can pull the knots from my wounds."

Once more, all Rune could do was to nod in acceptance. He bowed to the Baron and turned to his daughter who gave him a hug.

"Do not fret, Father. Believe me, Bente is the only man for me."

Rune had no choice but to believe her. All the way back to his bloomery he kept telling himself that there was nothing he could do but to grin and bear it. Deep inside he knew that it was his own doing, his misguided ambition to bring Lotta out to the Collier's cabin, and that thought was unsettling.

-------

The news spread like wildfire that Lotta, the Smith's beautiful daughter, would marry Bente the Collier of all men. Most villagers only knew Bente from the time he was an orphan child, and later when he delivered coal and was covered in soot. There was a lot of malicious rumours saying that beautiful Lotta had to marry to avoid scandal.

Those evil rumours were countered by those who asked why the Baron would attend the wedding in person if this was true. Lotta's friends maintained that the collier was now high in the Baron's favour and that Lotta may have snared the best bachelor far and wide.

Consequently, the small wooden church was filled to the last standing place when Rune led his daughter along the aisle to the waiting Collier. Most people barely recognised the groom. His blonde hair and reddish beard were freshly washed and trimmed, and in his new clothes he certainly looked like a catch.

The priest was hemming and hawing his way through service and wedding ceremony, badly stumbling over the Latin of the rites, but in the end he blessed the couple and that was all that counted.

Once outside the church the well wishers crowded Bente and Lotta. It seemed that the congratulations Bente received were more honest than those directed at his wife.

The whole village assembled in the village square where Rune had tables and benches built up and where a bullock was roasting on a spit since early morning (over charcoal, to be sure). It was a warm day in late summer, and the four good-sized kegs of ale met with lively interest.

The Baron toasted the couple and offered his presents. First, he presented Bente with the permit to hunt for roe deer in the Baron's forest. He grinned openly when he said that this present would cost him naught, for Bente had been poaching the deer anyway. Therefore, he presented him with a second gift, a beautiful longbow made of precious yew wood, and with a quiver filled with straight, iron-tipped arrows. Bente blushed when he thanked the Baron. Lotta received a small keg of pure, white mineral salt; a princely gift, literally worth its weight in gold.

All the way through the celebration, villagers approached the couple, handing over gifts. Of course, all gifts were practical items or food to give the couple a start into married life.

There was an awkward moment when Isaac the Jew and his daughter Ruth showed, uneasy and hesitant. People gaped when Lotta jumped up from the bench and hugged Ruth with feeling. Their gift, a beautiful crank mill for grain, was commented on in excited whisper. There was even more whisper when Lotta made Ruth sit with her.

The wedding would be rehashed all through the winter, that much was clear. It was made more memorable still when the Baron pledged to have a stone church built in the village, to thank for his deliverance and for the efforts of the villagers on his behalf. The excited babble that followed the proclamation gave the Baron a perfect cover for his farewell. His seven guardsmen rode up, and the Baron, suppressing the pain he still felt, mounted his strong black horse. With a last wave at the new couple, Gunther of Birkenhain left with all the dignity expected of a nobleman.

After the Baron had left people lost their inhibitions and the dance began. As custom dictated, bride and groom had to start the dance, but soon most adults engaged in the intricate patterns of their local folk dance. Old and young, poor and not-so-poor, mingled for once to the sounds of flute and shawm.

Two youngsters, however, stood to the side, too shy to join in the dancing. Lotta recognised them as the twin children of the widow Berta who had died in the spring of the same year. With only their widowed mother, the children had been poor all their lives, but Lotta could see that they lacked shoes and that their clothes were torn and filthy.

"Oh my, the poor twins," she sighed when she sat at the table again with Bente.

"What about them?" he asked.

As an outsider and outlier he was not privy to all the village gossip.

"Meike and Enno, the twins," Lotta replied. "They are the Widow Berta's. She died in spring, and look at them. No shoes and barely clothed. Farmer Marne wanted to take them in, but then his wife died, too."

Bente looked at the twins. They must be twelve or thirteen years old. The boy looked healthy enough and the girl would be a pretty one once she grew up.

"I should have an apprentice," he started hesitantly and Lotta's eyes lit up.

"Oh Bente, that is a wonderful idea! Meike could help me, too. With you allowed to hunt deer we'll have plenty of food, and I would not be alone while you are out gathering wood." She turned left, to her father. "Berta's twins, Father, does anybody take care of them?"

Rune shook his head. "They're stubborn, want to stay together. The boy, I'd take him in to teach him. But the girl, that would not look proper without a woman in the house and she only twelve."

Bente had to admit that Rune had some decency about him. Lotta stood and pointed at the youngsters.

"You, Enno and Meike, come here!"

Hesitantly and self-conscious the twins shuffled over to the table and stood close to each other.

"I hear you have no home yet, and you want to stay together. We can offer you a home if you, Enno, help Bente with the charcoal, and you, Meike, help me in the house."

The boy's eyes grew big.

"We could stay together, Mistress Lotta?"

Lotta smiled and nodded. Bente spoke up.

"You'll have to work for your keep, but you'll not be separated. I was an orphan child, too, but I learned a trade that feeds us."

The girl, her eyes big in her skinny face, spoke up for both. "We'd like to," she said.

"Eat your fill, then," Bente told them. "Father Rune, will you give them shelter for the night? I can pick them up tomorrow, but tonight, Lotta and I wish to be by ourselves."

That created a laugh all around, and Rune agreed generously to let the youngsters sleep under his roof for one night.

Of course, that was not the end of the celebrations. As long as there was ale in the kegs, and that was until late into the night, the villagers held out. Sometime before that and largely unnoticed, Bente and Lotta mounted the decorated wagon and drove out of the village, back to the collier's cabin.

Once there and finally alone, the young couple sat side by side on the bench outside the cabin watching the night sky.

"Are you happy, Bente?" Lotta asked.

Even in the weak light of a quarter moon, she saw the answer in his eyes.

"Lotta, this is a dream come true. You here with me, married, is all I ever prayed for."

Lotta felt her face heat. She had to know more, though.

"What that soldier did, can you live with that? Can you live with me, knowing you were not the first man to open me?"

"Lotta, all he did was to hurt you and cause you anguish. For this I killed him. He never had your love which I hope you will give to me, if not today but maybe in the future. There is nothing I'll miss but causing you the pain of breaking your maidenhood. How can I feel bad about that?"

"Will you take me to your bed tonight, then?"

"If you will let me," he answered solemnly.

"I am your wife and it is my duty," Lotta said with a wry smile.

"Nay, sweet Lotta, never speak of duty with me. Is it your wish, your honest wish, to be my wife and to receive me?"

She felt her face heat again.

"Yes, Bente, I want you. Take me as your wife tonight."

He kissed her in response, a long, gently kiss that made her short of breath nonetheless.

"Then let us go inside, my sweet wife! From this night onward I shall count myself the happiest man in the Baron's lands."

And so they went inside, and Bente the Collier became indeed the happiest man far and wide. For when they finally lay on their backs with Lotta's head on his chest, her hair sweaty and tousled, and with a dreamy smile on her lips, she spoke words he desperately wanted to hear.

"How can my heart be so full with love, Bente? You hold me in your arms and I never want to let go of you."

"You'll never have to, my love," Bente answered while he felt at peace with the world for the first time in his life. He thought of the people who had shaped his life and a thought came to his mind. "I shall light a candle in church for the soul of the Baron's brother. Had it not been for him and his treachery I could have never won you."

Lotta giggled softly at his side and cuddled close. But soon her breathing became slow and regular, and Bente settled for what he hoped was the first of many happy nights.


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The End
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Posted:  2011-04-10
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