This week I'm a bit late. But of course I won't miss out on my writing exercise. :D
The task was to change history. And I took the liberty to combine it with a writing request.
2016/04/15 – change history
The Dark Age and its mysteries had a
distinctive charm. Nowadays people enacted medieval culture on
travelling markets and festivals; they dressed like the olden days,
held fake knights' games and bands played what was called 'medieval
rock'.
LJ Arthur Setright was one of those
who dedicated a lot of his free time to medieval markets. He
travelled the cities clad in his tunic, armour, pelt and coat; a
heavy forged sword ready at his belt and a crested dagger in his
boots. When he was dressed up like that LJ Setright suddenly became
Sir Arthur of Camden. He liked the athmosphere of those markets, the
smells of campfires, roasted meat, hay and herbs, and he liked the
music and shows. The shelves in his living room were filled with
historical fictions, medieval music CDs and goods like mead horns,
helmets, swords and heraldic devices bought at one or other of those
markets or ordered from the internet.
Arthur was very enchanted with how
he imagined the medieval era to have been. He dreamed of knights and
fair maiden and minnelieds and half-timber houses and castles.
Until that Friday the 13th, when he
met the 'wood hag' in court. Never would he have thought witch hunts
did still happen in this day and age. But here he was facing some guy
claiming that a peculiar lady had drugged him with a potion of some
sort and cursed him with her 'evil magic'. At first LJ Setright was
tempted to laugh. But the law demanded he had to take this case
seriously. So he questioned both the plaintiff and the defendant and
heard their story. Except the seemingly derranged lady in question
refused to answer and spat at both the plaintiff's attorney and the
judge defiantly. Instead the enraged plaintiff accused the 'hag' of
witchcraft and 'evil deeds done in the devil's name' and she did
nothing to deny that. Arthur also heard the plaintiff's doctor, who
ascertained pathological damage after ingesting that ominous
'potion'. In the end he had to sentence the 'wood hag' for personal
injury, and that was that.
But before she was marched off her
ghastly eyes bore into Arthur, and she uttered hateful words, cursed
him with all of her malevolent soul. It felt as if a black veil had
plummeted and gripped Arthur's heart with wicked claws. But he shook
off the impression and continued his workday as if nothing had
happened.
And he all but forgot about her
until Saturday when he was dressing up for the medieval market.
Suddenly her words came to mind, and Arthur remembered that horrible
stare, the pure evilness of her eyes. He felt dizzy and sick; for a
few seconds black swirls danced before his eyes and he had to shut
them.
When he opened them again, he
stumbled through the muddy streets; putrid stench invaded his nose
and he had to swallow bile. Arthur leaned on a wall for support.
Someone approached him: “Good Sir, does thou not feel well?“
He put them off. “I'm fine, I'm
fine,“ he murmured and took a breather. The stench of shit stayed,
but it was bearable. When he looked up he saw a guy clad in muddy
linnen garbs. The man seemed a bit shy and lowered his gaze as Arthur
looked at him.
“God bless you then, good Sir.“
He hurried on, while Arthur remained
puzzled. When he looked around he was in an unfamiliar place. The
streets looked so very different, rows of low half-timbered houses
everywhere while he expected skyscrapers and 19th century buildings.
“Where am I?“ he briefly wondered. He started trudging through
the muddy roads until he found people. All of them were clad in
medieval garbs and Arthur blinked in confusion. Usually the markets
were crowded with garbed people but there always were normal visitors
or heavy metal fans around, too. Arthur however saw none of them.
“Hear, hear, ye good citizens of
London,“ a man shouted and held a scroll up from which he read. A
mob gathered. Arthur was confused; this place hardly was the London
he knew. And yet the man seemed serious. Arthur pushed his way
through the crowd to listen. “On the morrow the new headman of
London shall arrive and pass judgement on Mary-Jane Nimblefinger, who
is accused of witchcraft,“ he continued and the crowd jeered.
Arthur frowned. A witch hunt again.
But this time it seemed more serious. Somehow this didn't feel like
it was but a fake, a show, an enacting. This was the most realictic
medieval happening he had ever been to, and he didn't know how they
had managed to create this backdrop. He couldn't see anything of the
usual London skyline. Instead there were these medieval buildings and
streets.
The man who read the scroll suddenly
noticed Arthur. With his knightly garbs he surely stood out compared
to the common people. “Good Sir,“ the man addressed him, “what
might thy name be? Could thou be the headman who is to come?“
Arthur was a bit startled to be
included in this story. But since this was his usual job anyways he
decided to play along and said: “That is correct. I am Sir Arthur
Setright of Camden, and I came to take on the position of headman of
London.“
The man acted delighted and welcomed
him happily, then gestured for him to follow to the Lord Mayor's
house, who also welcomed him exaltedly. Next he was brought to
church, where the bishop shook hands with him and blessed him. Arthur
didn't know what to think of all this but he kept on playing along.
And so he swore an oath to pass just judgements in the name of the
Lord and the king. Next they showed him a place to stay; it was one
of the better houses, and he shared it with the hangman's assistant
and his wife.
Only later in his alcove of a bed,
when the mattress of hay was poking in his back Arthur realized this
was really happening; this was real and this was the Dark Age. “Maybe
this weird dream ends once I wake up...“ he murmured and closed his
eyes.
In the morning, however, he was
awakened by cockcrow instead of his usual alarm. The night had been
short and uncomfortable. And when he opened his eyes he wanted to
shut them again and keep on sleeping. For he believed he was still
dreaming. But someone stomped uup the stairs and banged on the wooden
door to his bedroom. “Sir headman, art thou awake? Breakfast is
ready,“ a female voice called.
Arthur sighed and blinked. He rubbed
his stubbly face and sighed again. So this was really real; he
somehow existed in the very time he had read so many books about and
pretended to belong when donning his medieval garbs. But now that he
was actually here he wished nothing more than to wake up and see
himself returned to his 19th century house at Camden. “Sir
headman?“ the woman asked again.
“Yes, yes, I'm up,“ Arthur
groaned and sat. He still had to come to terms with what was
happening – that it actually was happening. He began to worry how
to get back to his normal life, a life in present day London. For now
he dressed in his tunic, armour, pelt and coat, fastened his sword to
his belt and pushed his feet into his boots; he had a role to play,
and so he would.
The future was past, and the past
was present. LJ Arthur Setright had to become Sir headman Arthur
Setright of Camden, which was probably not that difficult. It was the
same field of profession anyways. Taking a deep breath he steeled
himself for the show and went down for an awkward breakfast with the
hangman's assistant and his wife. The assistant was a chatty one,
which was quite useful; Arthur soon got all the information he needed
to know about his job. And he would need it soon because after
breakfast the trial of Mary-Jane Nimblefinger was about to begin.
The courtroom was a single
thick-walled stone chamber deep in the heart of the basement of the
townhall. Without windows and proper lighting Arthur felt oppressed
and claustrophobic. At least he had a special seat away from the
angry mob and spectators, who wanted nothing more than to see the
alleged 'witch' burn. They spat and booed when the poor woman was
dragged in and shackeled to a pole before the headman's seat. “Stake,
stake, stake!“ they chanted. But Arthur rose from his seat and
called for order and silence. When it was finally quiet he ordered:
“Read the indictment, please.“
The assistant hesitated. Then he
whispered into Arthur's ear: “Sir headman… I can't read.“
Arthur cleared his throat. “Then
hand me the bill, and I'll do it.“ So he unfurled the scroll and
once-overed it before he said aloud: “In the name of the Lord and
the king of England I, Sir Arthur Setright of Camden, headman of the
city of London, open the case of the City of London v Ms. Mary-Jane
Nimblefinger.
“Ms. Nimblefinger is accused of
witchcraft. And I shall now hear the witnesses and the defendant, so
the truth may come to light.“ Arthur eyed the expectant crowd. It
was obvious they wanted to see this poor creature burn, or die in the
process anyways. And he knew enough about the methods of
interrogation of this time to be very aware that Mary-Jane was not in
any favourable spot to get out of this alive.
But maybe as the headman he, Arthur,
who knew a brighter future to women's rights, could make a
difference. “First let's hear the witnesses and assess the support
of the claim,“ he decided and called forth Ms. Nimblefinger's
neighbour, a Pete Baiting.
Mr. Baiting pointed at the shackled
and bedraggled woman and agitatedly claimed: “Last week, on a
fullmoon's night I saw that hag dancing around her cauldron, brewing
some evil potion and making devilish sing-song. I immediately knew
she was up to unholy deeds and-“
Arthur cleared his throat. “Mr.
Baiting,“ he warned, “Ms. Nimblefinger's guilt has yet to be
proved. Until then please refrain from calling her 'hag' or 'witch'
or something of similar meaning.“
Pete Baiting humbly bowed. “Pardon,
Sir headman,“ he mumbled. “As I was saying, I saw that – woman
do these things and instantly knew she was in bed with the devil.“
An accusing murmur rose from the
crowd. Arthur had to re-establish the silence before he spoke: “Thank
you, Mr. Baiting. Now, does the defendant want to address any of
these claims?“ The hangman's assistant stirred and wrung his hands,
clearly awaiting his order to torture the poor woman, who
frightenedly looked from side to side like a deer caught in
headlight. But Arthur made a refraining gesture. “Do speak up, Ms.
Nimblefinger. What happened that night?“ he asked her as gently as
possible.
“I – I don't remember well. I
was drunk, had too much ale that night,“ she timidly pleaded, “I
remember cooking soup in my kitchen because I was hungry...I – I
don'T know what happened after. I woke with a terrible headache.
Please, Sir! I'm not a witch. I swear to the name of the Lord. I'm
not a witch. Please!“ She quietly wept, clearly in fear for her
life.
The crowd booed and angrily
shouted:“Liar! Hag! Burn her!“
But Arthur clamed them down sternly.
“Nothing is proved yet. And as long as there is no proof, none
shall burn or be called 'hag'.“
“But I saw her!“ Pete Baiting
cried and pointed at Mary-Jane Nimblefinger, “She's a witch!“
“Mr Baiting, have you never seen a
drunkard sing and dance?“ Arthur calmly countered and raised a
brow. She had none to advocate her innocence, so he had to make sure
both sides were represented accordingly. In dubio pro reo was a
modern approach, which was clearly not applied in this time. But
maybe Arthur had the unique position and power to make a change here
and now.
The man was a bit taken aback and
blinked. “Err...I have, Sir headman,“ Pete admitted.
Arthur nodded. “Drunk people tend
to do crazy things they wouldn't normally do. I bet you are no
exception, Mr. Baiting,“ he smiled wrily. Some of the crowd
laughed.
“And is it possible, that Ms.
Nimblefinger was drunk while she sang and danced that night, when you
observed her? And by the way, would you not have had to see how the
land lies to notice her doing so?“ he questioned further.
Pete Baiting had the decency to
blush. After some stammering he answered: “It might be possible,
yes.“
Again Arthur nodded. “Thought so.
Would you please enlighten us then why you were observing Ms.
Nimblefinger that night?“
The man murmured something into his
beard and averted his eyes. “Please speak up loud and clearly, Mr.
Baiting. I can't hear you,“ Arthur requested. “Do you want my
assistant to aid my interrogation?“ The assistant's mien grew
frighteningly happier at the prospect of torture.
Pete Baiting harrumphed and finally
relented: “I was waiting for her to get drunk so I could bed her.
But the wench refused me. Even when she was dead drunk she refused
me.“ Angrily he lifted a fist at Mary-Jane. “So she shall burn in
hell!“
“Aha!“ Arthur perked up. “That's
a whole another story. Does that mean you accused her of witchcraft
because she denied you and kept her chastity?“
After a long silence Pete Baiting
admitted: “Yes.“
Inwardly Arthur Setright sighed,
relieved. But he had to be firm and decisive. So he stood and spoke
up: “In the name of the Lord and the king of England, I, Sir Arthur
Setright of Camden, headman of the city of London, declare for the
lack of proof that Ms. Mary-Jane Nimblefinger is aquitted of all
charges, and her name and honour be cleared. Release her.“
His assistant sprang to action and
uncuffed the woman, who wept out of relief and muttered countless
words of thanks. Arthur felt pride rise in his chest. But he wasn't
done yet. “And furthermore Mr. Pete Baiting shall be apprehended
and questioned. He is hereby accused of attempt rape and his case
shall be dealt with tomorrow,“ he decided. The crowd cheered and
jeered. Their disappointment in not seeing the 'hag' burn turned into
anticipation of Pete's trial.
Arthur Setright however relished in
the feeling of having done something right and just. He actually had
saved a life. This euphoric sentiment carried on until he was laying
in his alcove that evening; it exceeded even time itself. For the
next morning he was not woken by the cockscrow but by his alarm
blaring through the bedroom of his 19th century house at Camden.
Arthur sighed. His trip to the past
seemed like but a dream; it had even ended abruptly like one. He
didn't understand why or how it had happened or why he was so
suddenly back. But somehow he knew it had been real; somehow he knew
he had changed history, even if only for two people.
