Chapter 6 6: law and superstition

------------------------- If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. ------------------------------- The pain in my legs was almost unbearable. Now I had to train with the horse constantly. No more slow walks around the courtyard. As time went by, the trots became faster, the terrain rougher, and it wasn't long before I was required to start galloping. And to be honest, galloping on a horse without stirrups felt like being trapped in a trench while tons of explosives rained down on you. Every movement was an impact. Every jump from the animal felt like it was tearing the muscles from my legs. I had no choice. I could only endure. I had to look like the perfect son and heir. Make father finally disinherit Heinrich. And for that, I had to act at the very limit of my capabilities. Every single day. Until the day someone knighted me. And the worst part was, I had finally found something I wasn't naturally good at: galloping. Over the months, the mare and I understood each other better. Trotting became easy. I could keep control, guide her, react smoothly. But when training required me to ride out of the castle and gallop through the nearby fields, everything got harder. Balance was a struggle. Sometimes I had to cling desperately with both hands and legs. I didn't want to fall. I couldn't afford to fall. Now that I no longer wasted hours in religious studies, I spent most of the day riding without rest. And my body felt it. My legs burned. I had serious abrasions on my thighs from the constant friction with the thick fabric of my trousers. I had to master the horse as if it were an extension of my own body. During that time, almost all my responsibilities revolved around caring for the mare as if she were a sacred treasure. I got up earlier than everyone else just to feed her what she liked best. Carrots. Dried apple bits I saved. I brushed her carefully, combed her mane, and cleaned her coat every day, even when she wasn't dirty. I made sure she always had clean water. I took part when it was time to change her horseshoes, holding her leg or calming her with my voice if she got nervous. I made her wear the saddle even when I wasn't riding her, just so her body would get used to the constant weight. But above all, the hardest part was something else: getting her used to noise. Not just any noise — the kind you expect in combat. The sound of metal clashing against metal. Men shouting. Harsh cracks like the sound of a shield breaking. The screech of tightening straps. The thunder of boots marching. A horse that loses control in battle is a death sentence. Not because of the enemy, but because of the fall. The second of chaos when you go from rider to target on the ground, and worse if your own horse lands on you. So I started training her gradually. The stablehand, who barely spoke, taught me several methods. Banging pieces of iron near her legs. Dragging chains across the floor. Having soldiers train just a few meters from her. Sometimes I had them surround her while shouting orders like in a simulated assault, while I held her by the halter and spoke to her so she wouldn't panic. The first few months were disastrous. The mare reacted violently to every training attempt. She reared, spun in circles, kicked the air. She seemed to have zero aptitude for war, and more than once I thought she might never adapt. But I couldn't afford that. If I wanted her to be my war mount, I had to make her one, even if it took three times longer than it would for anyone else. So I kept at it. Day after day, without exception. I started using noise. Subjecting her to sudden movement. And using confusion. Anything that could simulate a battlefield, we recreated it. After a lot of work, I managed to get her past most of her violent reactions. She no longer kicked or backed away at loud sounds. She held her ground. Still tense, yes, but obedient. The next step was more delicate. And more brutal. Getting her used to the presence of dead bodies. Especially other horses. A normal horse, when seeing the corpse of one of its own, can panic. Some refuse to move forward. Others lose complete control. It was an instinct that had to be broken. If, in the middle of a charge, my mare stopped out of fear of another animal's corpse, I was as good as dead. The opportunity came when they decided to put down an old horse, one that wasn't even fit for plowing anymore. Its body, like everything else in this land, was going to be used to the last breath. For some reason I didn't fully understand, father was present that day. He watched everything closely. A man-at-arms approached the animal with a spear. Without a word, he plunged the blade into its chest. The horse shrieked once, reared up, and then collapsed heavily to the ground, blood spilling out in a slow, hot stream from the wound. Nearby horses grew restless. Some stepped back. The riders didn't waste time. They dipped their hands into the still-warm blood and rubbed it on their mounts' muzzles. It was part of the training. So they could smell it. Feel it. Get used to blood, since it would be a constant companion. Father looked at me directly as I did the same. I dipped my hand into the dark red pool forming under the fallen body. I firmly rubbed it on my mare's muzzle, which was panting hard. Then I ran it along her neck, streaking her coat with the warm blood. She shook herself, nervous, but didn't back away. Father nodded, and we simply returned to the castle, where the next phase of training began. This time the goal was to get her used to contact with other horses — what's expected in close-quarter mounted combat, where every rider crashes, pushes, or presses against another with no room to maneuver. Luckily for me, this part was easy. Apparently, the mare had no issues with the physical proximity of other horses. She didn't react nervously or aggressively. It was the first part of training that didn't turn into a headache. Still, even though we had accomplished all this in two years, there was much left to improve. The mare no longer startled easily, accepted contact, tolerated violent sounds, screams, even the smell of blood, but she still lacked the precise reflexes needed for a true war mount. Sometimes she hesitated when given sudden commands. If the terrain was too uneven, she became clumsy. She reacted to shouting, but still couldn't fully distinguish whether it came from me or another rider. They weren't serious mistakes, but in battle, those kinds of failures could cost me my life. So the training never stopped. It was expected that by the age of seven I would travel to the house of another noble, and father was already working on it. He wanted me to serve as a page in the most prestigious house within our reach, which already said a lot. Though we were landed nobles, we were only barons, the lowest rung of nobility, but relatively wealthy compared to others. We sold warhorses, and now we were also exporting iron to the merchants in the city of Schildheim. Even so, I had heard father complain more than once about the debts he still had. The interest rates were high, and the payments constant. One of those training days, well into the afternoon, I was practicing jumps with the mare. My body, especially my legs and abdomen, had changed a lot over the years. It was firm, adapted to the tension of riding without stirrups for hours every day. That's when father interrupted the training. "Albrecht, change your horse's saddle. We have to go to the village. There's an event I need you to see," father said, calling to me from the entrance of the yard. I obeyed quickly. I got off the mare, removed the saddle, and went to fetch another one. This one had stirrups. Riding with stirrups after years without them felt almost insulting. It was like riding a bike with training wheels. The control was so easy I briefly wondered how anyone could ever fall off like this. A group of men-at-arms gathered around us. Soon we were making our way down to the village. From afar I saw a crowd gathered in the center. Something was happening. We pushed through the people and dismounted. Father didn't say a word. He just nodded toward a wooden building near the Sigmarite chapel. We entered and quickly took our places. There was a main chair where father sat, and a smaller one next to it for me. Everything suggested we were about to witness a trial. We waited a few minutes, until two guards brought in two people bound with rope. Soon after, many villagers began to enter. They crowded along the walls, pushed each other, murmured, shouted so many things at once that I couldn't make sense of anything. "Enough! You stand in my presence, mob of degenerates!" father shouted, his tone so sharp and powerful the entire room fell silent. I was so close to him that I had to cover my ear from the force of his voice. "Alright... by blessed Sigmar, why are we here?" father said, now with a firm but controlled tone. "Peasant Hannes is accused of adultery, my lord," said one of the knights present, pointing to the man. "Oh... I see. So all this fuss is because you couldn't control what's between your legs," father said sarcastically, crossing one leg as he looked at him. "No... my lord, I swear by blessed Sigmar... that witch seduced me... I couldn't resist... I would never do something like that..." the accused stammered, sweating, looking everywhere but at father. It was obvious he was lying. He avoided eye contact. His tone cracked with every word. He was clearly nervous, making up his story on the spot. Father looked thoughtful for a moment. "Be careful with your words, peasant. Do not invoke the name of Sigmar in vain. Are you sure of what you're saying?" father asked, his tone dry. "Yes, my lord, I swear," the peasant replied, still trembling. Father brought a hand to his chin, evaluating the scene. "That woman cursed my fields!" one of the villagers shouted from the back of the hall. "And she made my hens sick. They stopped laying eggs after she walked past my house!" shouted another voice. "My son had a fever a week after we saw her at the crossroads!" shouted a woman, arms crossed and face red. "I saw her burying things next to the well at night, that's not normal!" exclaimed an old man, pointing a finger. "My dog smelled her and howled for three nights straight!" added another peasant, banging his staff on the floor. "I saw her praying to the moon! The moon, my lord, as if it were a goddess!" shouted another, making Sigmar's sign over his chest. The room filled with voices. All pointed at the woman. All spoke of signs, omens, superstitions. It was as if they were just waiting for father to give them permission to light the firewood and tie the ropes. "Call the priest immediately," father said without raising his voice. One of the guards left quickly and returned shortly with the priest from the chapel. The cleric walked up to father's chair with a firm stride, and father stood to receive him. They began whispering to each other. "I don't trust that man at all, but the whole village is accusing her of something. Call a witch hunter and let him handle it," father said, not taking his eyes off the woman. "Yes, good decision. I'll send a missive at once," replied the priest, quickly stepping away. Once the priest had left through the door, father sat back down and spoke with a firm, clear voice, leaving no room for doubt. "Alright. Considering that this concerns something beyond my jurisdiction... the accused..." father said, pointing at the woman, who was pale, motionless, as if waiting for someone to say her name for her. "Brunhilde, my lord," said one of the knights. "...shall be kept in the dungeons until the witch hunter arrives, and then we will proceed accordingly," father continued, without a trace of emotion in his voice. Then he turned to the peasant, who still had his head lowered. "And as for you... ten lashes for adultery," father said, raising a finger. One of the soldiers grabbed the man by the arm and took him away immediately. They did the same with the woman. The rest of the villagers began to leave slowly, murmuring among themselves as they exited the lord's courthouse. "Stupid peasants... having to call a witch hunter..." father muttered under his breath, then looked at me. "See, my son? This will be your headache someday. Having to listen to the complaints of these idiots... what a waste of time, really... it was obvious," father said, but didn't finish his sentence. "He was lying," I said, completing it. "Exactly... with time you'll learn to notice that. Peasants are terrible liars. Even a child like you already noticed that fool was making everything up and invoked Sigmar's name in vain," father said with a half-smile. He paused, watching as the courthouse door closed. "When the witch hunter arrives... well, if the woman doesn't break under interrogation, we'll have him on a pyre... or we'll have her," father said, shrugging as if it made no difference. Then he nodded toward the exit, signaling me to follow. ------------------------- If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. -------------------------------