Chapter 19: How Pelle Unveils a Great Injustice

There was not much to do for the new reeve of Lemdalen in the following months. Pelle spent most days making himself familiar with the Great Ledger and with his other duties. Once a month, on the first Sunday after church, he spoke justice under the ancient lime tree in the centre of the village square. Only petty quarrels were brought before him, mostly disputes over some tool being lent and returned damaged, but Pelle did his best to reach just verdicts. Margrite’s father, Helge, was the one to raise most of the complaints, almost against every other person in the village, and Pelle learned that the old reeve had mostly sided with Helge. They had been drinking chums, and Pelle suspected that the reeve had received kick backs from Helge.

Now, the crafty farmer was thwarted in his complaints time and again, for Pelle was not inclined to do the man any favour. Once, he felt he had to uphold one of Helge’s claims as a neighbour’s dog had indeed killed one of his chickens. Yet on the whole, Helge was unhappy with Pelle’s rulings. This was more than offset by the satisfaction most other villagers felt, and by the time the sowing moon arrived, Pelle was gaining respect in the village.

He made a point to show up in the tavern once a week, mostly on Saturdays. Over a stein or two of ale, he discussed important business with the villagers. Taking a leaf from the baron’s book, Pelle planned to have a deep gutter dug along the village road. The small river that flowed nearby could be diverted once a day to flush the wastes away. The gutter would be lined with stones and clay, to prevent the wastes from seeping into the ground and fouling the wells.

Using ploughs and shovels during the late winter month, the villagers had completed that task within a week, and then the gutter was covered with slabs of stone from the nearby quarry. Once finished, everybody conceded that it reduced the foul smell in the village.

Since his manor house was upriver from most of the village, his own well provided good water, something for that Pelle was grateful. Considering everything, his new life was a good one. Most importantly, he and Ingeburg spent every night together. His duties, whilst important, were but light work compared with building the kilns, and he always returned home to a well laid table.

Pelle rode out to the clearing twice a week to see whether his help or advice were needed, but they seemed to cope well without him. The two newly wed couples, with the help of the family of fugitives, were still building sod kilns at a rate of one every month, and Tjark made deliveries to Birkenhain twice a week. In addition to that, the stone kiln was fired every two weeks, and the second stone kiln was nearing completion fast. The clearing was growing steadily as more and more trees were felled and their wood charred, but it would be many years before the colliers would have to move.

By early Rain Moon, the baron visited Lemdalen under the pretence of an inspection, but it was soon clear that he was charged by his ladies to ascertain Ingeburg’s well being. He was very pleased with the way Pelle handled his office. He also visited and inspected his new hunting lodge in the forest. On this occasion, the Corporal Gebhardt presented his bride Marja to his lord, and Pelle heard later that the poor girl blushed pink under the baron’s teasing. The baron gave his blessing to the planned wedding and expressed his hope that Marja would join his own kitchen staff for, as he said, she had a marvellous talent for pastries and stews.

In the midst of the Rain Moon, Ingeburg gave birth to their daughter. It was long and hard for her. From the first signs, poor Ingeburg fought for more than a day until the head came out, followed by the rest of the tiny girl. Pelle never felt more helpless in his life. He did not once stray from her side, holding her and encouraging her, and when finally the umbilical cord was cut, Pelle was soaked in sweat almost as badly as his exhausted wife. Yet, when the infant latched on Ingeburg’s breast for the first time, he cried with happiness.

A large cask of Tosdalen ale was tapped in the tavern, and most villagers partook of the fine treat toasting Pelle and Ingeburg, but also their newborn child. Before the keg was even emptied, Pelle was at Ingeburg’s side again, gazing with wonder at the tiny human being. The wrung out Ingeburg could not help but smile blissfully when she regarded her husband who had stood at her side all through the long ordeal. Yes, Ingeburg was happy. Happy, because she could feel Pelle’s deep love even now as they were both utterly exhausted.

“Pelle, my love, can you be happy with a girl as your eldest?” she asked, already sure of his answer.

He smiled at her, a peaceful, content smile. “She is your daughter and bound to be a little angel,” he answered. “How shall we name her, my darling wife?”

Ingeburg focussed on the issue. “My mother’s name is hated in Lemdalen, and I would not saddle our daughter with it. Methinks Nele is a fine name, but would you mind naming her Ermegart? The baroness offered to serve as godmother.”

“Having the baroness for her godmother? Our little girl will lead a happy life, indeed.”

“She really has been good to me, all through my stay in the castle,” Ingeburg mused. “We can name the next girl Nele.”

“Seeing how you stand with the young baroness, we’ll have a Lieselotte first,” Pelle grinned.

Ingeburg smiled back, feeling the exhaustion catching up with herself. “Pelle, before I fall asleep on you, I want to thank you for being at my side all through the birthing. It is hard for a man, I know, and I love you for it.”

“Hard for me?!” Pelle almost screamed. “You were the one to give birth, to feel the pains and the exhaustion. My darling wife, never in my life shall I forget the ordeal you suffered to gift me my first child.”

“Can you hold me from behind then? My back hurts fiercely, and I would love your embrace whilst I sleep.”

Instantly, Pelle shed his trousers and his vest and climbed into the bed behind his wife. She snuggled back, seeking the warmth and support of his strong body. She sighed happily, looking at her child with drooping eyes.

“What a wonderful day,” were the last mumbled words before she fell into sleep.

It was three nights later, when Pelle was woken by angry shouts from outside.

“What is that?” Ingeburg asked sleepily.

“I guess I’ll have to find out,” Pelle grumbled.

He ambled down the spiral staircase feeling his way in the darkness. In the hall, he slipped his brigandine over his head and took his sword from the hooks. He opened the small window in the door and peered out. Several men and women stood there holding lit torches. Pelle recognised Helge, Margrite’s father, among them. With a sigh, Pelle opened the door.

“About time you got your lazy arse out of bed!” Helge stormed shaking his fist at Pelle.

Pelle looked about. The two buettel appeared on the scene.

“Take that lout into the cellar,” he ordered pointing at Helge.

Surprised, they obeyed and dragged the protesting man into the manor and down into the holding cell. Pelle looked sharply at the suddenly subdued mob.

“Now, will somebody tell me what happened?” he demanded aggressively.

Ortolf the Hunchback stepped forward. He was the father of Bartel, one of Margrite’s friends.

“Helge’s daughter Margrite is with child. He claims my Bartel did it, but she’s also been seen with Nithart.”

A woman raised her voice. “My Nithart is a decent lad!” she screamed. “It’s Helge’s daughter who seduced him!”

Pelle held up his hand. “First of all, where is Margrite and where are the lads?”

“Margrite’s at my house,” Ortolf stated. “Helge nigh on beat her to death, and she fled to us. My wife is tending her with Bartel’s help.”

“Can you keep her until the morrow?” Pelle asked, and Ortolf nodded.

Pelle nodded back. “This is no hour to settle the quarrel. Tomorrow at the noon bell, we shall all meet under the Lime Tree. Bring your youngsters and try to calm your tempers.”

“What will happen to Helge?” a woman demanded. He recognised her as Margrite’s mother, Alke.

“He’ll get his punishment for insulting the baron’s reeve. This is not about me; it’s about my office and he should have known better. Somebody bring Margrite here an hour after sunrise so I may get to the bottom of this.”

He fairly slammed the door shut behind himself and trudged up the stairs. Ingeburg sat awake, little Ermegart suckling on her breast and a candle burning by the bedside.

“Did you hear?” Pelle asked, and Ingeburg nodded.

“Now she did it,” she said shaking her head. “Seeing two lads at the same time. What was she thinking?”

Pelle shrugged. “Knowing what I know of her, she did not get enough attention from one lad alone.”

Ingeburg made a sad face. “I don’t know. She was quite different when we were younger. Her problem is different from my own. Her own mother hates her, and it is Helge who is cavorting around her all the time.”

Pelle yawned. “Let us get some sleep. I have a feeling that tomorrow will see some ugly scenes.”

“Give Ermi a few more moments,” Ingeburg answered.

Indeed, the infant drank a little while longer and relieved herself with a hearty burp before Pelle and Ingeburg could settle for sleep again.

Pelle and Ingeburg were sitting at their breakfast table when the visitors came. Ortolf’s wife brought a badly battered Margrite who showed bruises on her arms and welts where Helge had taken a whip or his belt to his daughter. Her right eye was fairly swollen shut and she showed a shiner. Tears were running down her cheeks as she stood before Pelle and Ingeburg. Pelle pointed at a stool.

“Sit and eat a bite first,” he ordered.

Hesitantly, the young woman began to nibble on a piece of rye bread.

“I wanted to speak to you to see if there are things you can tell me that need not be heard by the whole village,” Pelle started after watching her for a while. “You are carrying a child?”

Margrite nodded miserably with fresh tears running down her cheeks.

“Have you lain with Bartel, Ortolf’s son?”

She shook her head, and Pelle observed that her hand holding the bread began to shake.

“Was it Nithart then?”

Again, she shook her head and she hunched her back as if awaiting a blow.

“Who else have you seen, girl? Was it a soldier or one of the farm hands?”

Another shake of her head was all the answer Pelle got.

“A married man of the village?”

Another shaking of her head was the answer. Suddenly a light went off in Pelle’s head as he remembered Ingeburg’s words from the night before.

“Everybody out, except for you, Ingeburg, and for Margrite!” he commanded.

With a look of fear Margrite watched the servants and Bartel’s mother leave. They heard Birte close the heavy door from the outside. They were alone.

“Have you lain with your father?” Pelle asked bluntly.

The look of pure terror and fear was enough to give Margrite away. She stared at Pelle wordlessly.

“How long has this been going on?” he asked mercilessly.

When she did not answer, Pelle stood and walked over to her. With his hand he forced her chin up and looked at her.

“How long?”

“F-for nigh on two years,” Margrite whispered.

“How did it happen?”

For the first time Margrite showed some fire.

“I did not ask for it! I had been out late with Bartel, too late, and Father was angry. He started to welt me in the barn, on my bottom, but then he stopped and threw me over the sawhorse. It has been like this ever since. He makes up reasons to punish me, and then he has his way with me. He...” she drew a deep breath. “He made me accuse Luise last fall. He wanted to have his way with her too whilst she was in the stocks.”

Pelle looked at Ingeburg who slowly stood and came over. She put a soothing arm around her erstwhile friend whilst Pelle pondered his next actions. At long last, he opened the door and called for somebody to bring the scribe. When that worthy arrived, Pelle had also assembled Father Ortwinus and Rudlo the Smith. Once again, Margrite had to tell her story, and the scribe wrote it down on a parchment.

Accompanied by Ingeburg, Margrite then followed Father Ortwinus to the church where she made her confessions. Father Ortwinus was lenient on her. A hundred Our Fathers and another hundred Hail Maries were her penance, but it took her until after noon to complete it.

Meanwhile, Pelle had the buettel bring up Helge from the cellar.

“Helge, freeholder in Lemdalen, you stand accused of raising your hand against me, the rightful reeve of Lemdalen and voice of our Lord Sigfrid, by God’s Grace Baron of Birkenhain,” Pelle started.

As if he had waited to vent his fury, Helge answered with a scream. “You lousy bastard! You’re nothing but scum! You...”

He reeled back under the impact of Pelle’s fist. Pelle was a tall man, and his muscles had formed under the heavy work of hauling branches and swinging hammers and axes. When he hit the farmer his fist fairly broke the man’s jaw, sending teeth flying about the room. His hand hurting some he rubbed it whilst he looked down at the prone man.

“Your daughter confessed her sins. We know how you made her lie before our Gracious Lord, so you could befoul an honest girl, Luise, Tjark’s wife. We also know of your heinous crime against the laws of God and Emperor, befouling your own flesh and blood. Do you confess, rascal?”

Helge could only mumble with his broken jaw. “She’s my daughter, an’ I do as I please in my house.”