CHAPTER 244: LIVING SCARECROWS

Living Scarecrows

Canardia West Gate

More than anyone, Lansius understands the importance of making a grand entrance. For today’s proceedings, it heightens the drama, raises the stakes, and applies pressure. While he acknowledged that governmental functions should run silently like a well-oiled machine, he knew that could lead people to mistake it for being asleep and lead to dissatisfaction. Running a government was not like commanding an army, where silence and stealth were vital.

He believed that a government needed flair, as the Romans demonstrated with generous, widely popular food handouts to the masses, wild chariot races, and gladiatorial games.

It was often overlooked, but there was a need to feed both bellies and minds if one wanted to keep the public happy.

The famed bread and circuses politics.

For that reason, Lansius mobilized the city garrison to join his parade to the courthouse. He chose to start at the western camp so he could muster all of Canardia in a great procession.

If Sir Ebenstein counted on his knights and squires, Lansius could count on the entire city for support.

From his carriage window, he watched the people of Canardia pressing in on either side of the road. His escorts worked hard to contain their excitement and keep the carriage moving. Yet his men seemed to enjoy the heartfelt reaction. From balconies and windows of tall buildings, young and old alike cheered for him. Their voices rose and fell like waves through the narrow streets, everyone eager to catch a glimpse of him and the procession.

The outpouring of support somehow eased his tension, even with the court proceedings weighing on him.

Sir Harold, too, remained calm, his posture relaxed against the seat. Meanwhile, Claire sat beside him, her shoulders tense and her hands clasped in her lap to hide her unease.

A firm knock on the window announced the captain of the mounted guard. Sir Harold cracked the glass just enough to hear without losing the cool air Claire’s magic maintained.

“Sir, requesting permission to pick up the pace? At this rate, we’ll be crawling for hours.”

“No,” Sir Harold said. “Maintain this pace. The Lord needed time to deliberate. Buy us as much time as you can.”

The captain inclines his head and states evenly, “Understood, Sir.”

Sir Harold closed the window and returned his gaze to the crowd, searching for any sign of trouble.

After a moment’s silence, Claire spoke softly. “My Lord, why are we moving so slowly? Are we baiting an ambush?”

Lansius turned his gaze to Claire, who sat opposite him, her traveling cloak hiding her blond hair. It wasn’t as golden as Felicity’s, but it could still mistakenly mark her as high-born. “Nothing of the sort. I just realized I never properly briefed you.”

“May I?” Sir Harold offered.

“No, let me,” Lansius replied. “Perhaps by running through it again, I’ll spot something I overlooked.” He tapped the leather-bound documents at his side. “This contains the only hard evidence our investigators could find. It shows the wanted man continued to work for Sir Ebenstein after the war, based on two orders in his writings and also witness statements.”

“Would that be enough for the court?” Claire asked.

“It is enough for most cases,” Lansius responded. “But since this case has drawn so much attention, we need something more decisive. A stronger evidence."

Claire wore a curious expression, and Lansius explained, “Right now, both sides, the commoners and the nobles, are eager for a satisfying result. If we cannot deliver one, it will be disastrous.”

She frowned. “But with them on opposite sides, won’t one outcome hurt the other?”

“Naturally,” Lansius confirmed. “That’s why we need strong evidence. If we capture the wanted man, his testimony could either clear Sir Ebenstein or condemn him. If he is proven beyond doubt, not even his fellow nobles will back him.”

Claire let out a thoughtful hum.

Meanwhile, Sir Harold commented without taking his eyes off the window, “It’s unfortunate that the Orange Skald failed to track him.”

“Their failure is to be expected; they only had a day. Stalking and investigating take time,” Lansius said, glancing at the tall knight. “Remind me to change the rules. This obsession with swift justice does not serve the process. The court should have at least one week to conduct an investigation.”

Sir Harold gave a nod, confirming he would remind him of the matter.

Lansius continued, “I wish I could postpone today’s court, but alas, even holding Sir Ebenstein overnight would cause issues with our standing among the nobles.”

Sir Harold smiled wryly. “Summoning him to court has already sent a shock through the nobles.”

“He’s well connected, all right.” Lansius inhaled deeply. In an age where trial by combat was a thing, justice was swift but simple. The accuser would make his case, the accused would respond, and the lord or bailiff would decide then and there. Rarely was there any real investigation, unless it involved the lord’s own people or interests.

He found similarities to the old, well-known story of a king who decided which woman was the true mother of a baby. That king too made his judgment on the spot, relying on a simple trick. The situation was much the same. There was no inquiry, and no institutions dedicated to that role. This was likely due to limited resources to fund such bodies, and the reality that investigators could be easily bribed without proper oversight. Thus, with so few means available, entrusting the highest authority to settle disputes was seen as a reasonable solution, with the hope that he would at least be impartial.

“Then how will you proceed, My Lord?” Claire asked, concern evident in her eyes.

“I have tasked Sterling and the bailiff with a plan,” Lansius answered.

At the sound of her husband’s name, Claire’s eyes sparkled. "My Lord, is it possible to learn about the plan?”

Lansius paused to recall his plan. “I don’t mind,” he said. “But how do I explain this properly…”

Claire waited patiently while regulating the air with her magic to keep it cool.

Lansius glanced at the crowd outside the carriage, then said, “Right, you asked earlier why we’re riding so slowly.”

“Indeed, My Lord."

“I’ll tell you this: the carriage and the entire parade were intentionally grand and slow for a purpose. It’s to put pressure on their minds.”

“Pressure on their minds?” She wasn't familiar with such an idea.

“Yes,” Lansius said. “You might know it better as burdening their wits and shaking their courage. Right now the bailiff and our other agents are doing just that in hopes for the accused to plead guilty.”

“Plead guilty... is that even possible?” Claire’s tone was doubtful.

Lansius allowed himself a faint smile. “The situation is complicated. We hold a weak hand. The only way to win this case without stronger evidence is for the accused to admit his wrongdoings.”

Claire looked concerned. The stakes were high, but their planning looked inadequate. “Then, My Lord, what plan do you have for the court?”

Lansius chuckled. “I have a few things in mind, but truth be told, if we fail to secure his confession before we arrive, all is probably lost.”

Claire frowned, confusion in her eyes. “But My Lord, I thought your arrival would only mark the beginning.”

Lansius smiled. “On the contrary, my arrival is unlikely to change the outcome. You know I treat these proceedings as I do my wars. For this proceeding, the battle was already joined.”

***

Courthouse

Inside the hall, Sir Ebenstein did his best to maintain his composure as he awaited the lord’s arrival to resume proceedings. He was certain of his victory; there was no doubt. Yet the cheering crowd outside was driving him to the brink of madness. It sounded like wailing in a thunderstorm, and despite his efforts to ignore it, it sapped his confidence and plagued his mind. As if to confirm his state, his squire looked equally concerned.

He could only sigh. The wait was dreadful.

He had been ready, but now, with nothing to do but listen to the torturous voices that sounded to him like demands for his punishment, his thoughts became a whirlwind of chaos. The fear he thought he had banished reared its ugly head again.

Suddenly, courthouse staff entered through the side door connecting to the rest of the complex. Sir Ebenstein, eager for any relief from his mounting dread, welcomed the diversion from the endless wait. To his surprise, the men were hauling in ornate oak chairs intended for the lord and his retinue.

He watched as a dozen attendants dragged the heavy chairs inside, each man careful not to nick the polished wood. Once the furniture was set in place, another group moved in with cloths, wiping away every speck of dust and polishing even the hidden angles until the oak gleamed as if new.

Long minutes passed, and still they found tasks to occupy themselves, rubbing out fingerprints in crevices the Lord would never notice and buffing undersides of the arms that would never see the light of day. All of this without a single word of instruction.

Sir Ebenstein cleared his throat in discomfort. Their meticulous diligence gnawed at him, a grim reminder that the Black Lord commanded enough power to make men go to such lengths.

The men finally moved away, and Sir Ebenstein found himself staring at the three heavy and majestic chairs. He knew it would do him no good, yet his curiosity got the better of him. The most ornate chair was clearly reserved for the Black Lord. Sir Ebenstein had met the Lord when he swore his oath of fealty, but he could not read the man’s mind. Outwardly, the Lord seemed calm and considerate, but everyone knew his reputation.

The other chairs were likely meant for Sir Harold, the Lord’s famed champion. But the last chair, placed in front of the long table, perplexed him. Its position did not imply high rank, yet providing a seat when even officers were expected to stand signaled that someone of great importance would occupy it.

His eyes widened in disbelief as he recalled the mythical half-beast among the Lord’s retinue. His palms grew sweaty, and his heart raced. He remembered the rumors among the nobles: the creature could sniff out lies.

Doubts about his defense began to creep in. The half-beast could easily expose his lies.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

To lie before the Lord’s court…

Sir Ebenstein swallowed hard and wiped his forehead with the hem of his brightly colored doublet. To lie to the lord was an entirely different matter. It was a fault of far greater magnitude than not honoring a promise to a peasant. His estate could be seized, and he and his family might be exiled.

The odds were against him. He faced not a Midlandia-born lord but the Black Lord, whose reputation for wrath was plentiful. He had heard the Lord cut his consort’s allowance for a year over some petty differences. He had even heard he had whipped an old knight simply as part of a strategy. And there were rumors of him letting the half-beast gorge on Sir Reginald’s limbs.

Sir Ebenstein was at a loss. He had not toiled so hard and married late to recover his estate only to lose it all over a bag of silver.

He had yet to calm himself or think of a solution when a sudden clamor captured his attention. The rhythmic beat of boots and distant shouts announced an approaching group. He rose unsteadily, convinced the Black Lord had arrived, but as the newcomers filed in, it became clear they were not the Lord. He noted, however, that these men were no ordinary guardsmen, taller than most, clad in dull black, their cold eyes scanning the hall, their rapid-fire crossbows at the ready.

He recognized them. They were the rumored tip of the spear, the elite unit that had broken Lubina and captured Sir Reginald.

The bailiff, who had waited in the courtyard, greeted the newcomers’ leader as if they were an equal. Meanwhile, the rest of the group inspected the courthouse for any faults.

One of them met Sir Ebenstein’s gaze with a bored, unyielding stare. It was clear that even as a knight, he counted for nothing in their eyes. His blood boiled, but he knew it would not do him any good. Worse, deep down, he knew he had passed his prime and could not win against them.

From behind, the bailiff approached and said, “Sir, you may remain seated. The Lord has not yet arrived. They are here only to inspect the place.”

The knight nodded weakly and sat down. The bailiff returned to preparations for the lord’s arrival.

Even seated, it gave Sir Ebenstein neither comfort nor peace. The clamorous activity around him and the roar of the crowd outside pressed on his nerves.

Suddenly, an even louder commotion rose. Sir Ebenstein sprang to his feet again, but it wasn't the Black Lord. A dozen battle-scarred figures filed into the courtyard under escort, their missing limbs wrapped in coarse cloth. One wore an eyepatch, and others leaned heavily on their guards. In contrast, two men in fine, well-cut garments followed. They were led to a long bench at the back of the hall.

Sir Ebenstein did not expect this turn of events. A cold sweat trickled down his back as he thought of the consequences.

“Master, could they be from Sir Reginald’s column?” his squire whispered nervously.

The knight said nothing. He reviewed his defense, which relied on his right-hand man escaping South Midlandia and retiring to a remote North Midlandia village. Without him as a witness, no one could testify that he ordered the recruitment or the shift of allegiance toward Sir Reginald. But now, he realized he had a fatal flaw.

Since his right-hand man had joined one side, others in the camp might know the circumstances. Perhaps even a ranking officer could testify. Sir Ebenstein’s gaze drifted to the two men in fine clothes, and his strength faltered further.

Now the crack of whips, the bite of the beating stick, and the gleam of the executioner’s axe felt dangerously close.

“Give me water,” he said to his squire, who produced his waterskin in haste.

The knight drank deeply, spilling some in his rush.

He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself while the odds of defeat continued to stack up against him. The half-beast and the witnesses from Sir Reginald’s column would certainly ruin his defense.

The nerve-wracking wait continued, fear clouding his mind. A single lie to his lord could cost him his estate and his family’s future. The thought of losing his ancestral home and being exiled to the rocky, infertile fields of Lowlandia sent a shiver down his spine. His wife’s House would surely annul their marriage and take their two small children from him to spare them such a fate. He would die alone, toiling those barren steppe fields, his seasonal labor likely to kill him before winter.

That very thought crushed his spirit and made him want to plead guilty. Yet his resolve faltered at the knowledge that confession carried its own price. It certainly would ruin his House financially from payments and penalties. Furthermore, once exposed, his allies would ridicule him and he would lose any chance of cooperation, for nobles always shun the disgraced.

Either way, he was damned. He would not emerge from this unscathed.

By now, each minute felt like ten to Sir Ebenstein.

The situation only worsened. The Lord’s men, officers, and guardsmen came and went, and the crowd cheered wildly for each of them, further disorienting his mind.

Suddenly, more people arrived under escort and took seats in the witness section. Sir Ebenstein’s jaw hardened when he recognized one of them. The man, who was a captain under Sir Reginald, met his gaze but immediately averted his eyes in shame.

That was the final straw. His time was up. He needed to act now, or lose his neck. Before he could think twice, his leg propelled him to his feet, startling his squire. “Call the bailiff,” he rasped.

His squire barely had time to react before Sir Ebenstein strode across the hall. “Good Meister,” Sir Ebenstein greeted the bailiff politely for the first time.

The bailiff turned, puzzled. “Yes?”

“About the deal you offered earlier,” Sir Ebenstein said in a low voice.

The bailiff glanced at the lord’s men before returning his attention. “I am not aware of any deal, but if you wish to plead guilty, I—”

“Yes,” Sir Ebenstein stammered, drawing astonished looks from those nearby.

“But the Lord is almost here,” the bailiff protested, though whether he spoke out of genuine concern or to placate the lord’s men was anyone’s guess.

“Then draw up the letter at once,” Sir Ebenstein pleaded just as the petitioner reentered the courtroom.

The woman whose son had died in Sir Ebenstein’s service heard his words, gasped, and dared to give him a sharp stare. She was about to curse him, but the guards restrained her.

Sir Ebenstein saw her reaction but did not care for her disapproval. Unashamed, he turned back to the bailiff and said, “I beseech you, let us conclude this matter without delay.”

***

The Orange Skalds

Sterling and his cadre of skalds in disguise watched from a secluded corner as the bailiff refused Sir Ebenstein’s guilty plea, stating that the Lord was about to arrive. Despite the tension in the hall and the growing number of officials present, Sterling knew the refusal was feigned. The bailiff’s refusal was part of the plan. Had he accepted the plea too readily, the accused might have had second thoughts or suspected a trap.

As they had rehearsed, only after a brief confrontation did the bailiff accept the accused’s guilty plea.

Sterling and his men exchanged glances and nodded in silence. Their mission had been a success.

A sigh of relief escaped them as they called off the remainder of their plan. The weight of responsibility finally lifted from their shoulders. Previously, they and the investigators had failed to track down or capture the wanted man, and that weighed heavily on them.

Fortunately, the plan devised by their lord had worked. The guilty plea in exchange for leniency had been a ruse to secure a verdict acceptable to both commoners and nobles. Without strong evidence, it was the only way to enforce the law, secure justice, and preserve peace.

This outcome was the fruit of their carefully choreographed strategy, which piled pressure upon pressure to compel Sir Ebenstein to confess. And Sterling’s group had been instrumental. They were the ones who orchestrated every appearance, timing each arrival to maintain maximum tension in the courtroom.

They had the laborers haul in the new, ridiculously heavy, ornate chairs and instructed each man to handle them with exaggerated care. They told the workers that the Black Lord’s men would inspect every detail, no matter what. Then they spurred them on with the fear of displeasure and the promise of extra coin, driving them beyond reason to clean and polish every surface, nook, and cranny.

They were also responsible for preparing the witnesses by bringing in captured veterans from Sir Reginald’s column whom Sir Ebenstein might recognize. Though these men likely knew nothing of the case, their presence alone planted ominous questions in the accused’s mind.

Yet the greatest performance was the lord’s procession. He marched his men at a deliberate crawl so that time itself became a torment. He intended to instill a dread of running out of time, making each passing minute more harrowing. He even mobilized the entire garrison to make it grand and to attract a bigger crowd so that shouts and cheers would echo ever louder inside the courthouse, keeping the pressure unforgivably high.

Several more surprises remained in reserve, including a plan to station one of Francisca’s kin beside the lord’s chair to sow fresh terror. Sterling had motioned to the carriage where the half-breed had been waiting to return to the castle.

Meanwhile, the court officials drafted the document following Sir Ebenstein’s confession. The petitioner was present and was allowed to speak, which she did on three occasions.

Not all of her demands were met, but the bailiff consulted his records and deemed the result satisfactory, finding that all outstanding issues had been addressed.

Then they all watched as Sir Ebenstein pressed his signet ring into the still-melting purple wax. Once the wax had hardened, the officer on duty, with the bailiff’s permission, stepped to the center of the hall and announced, “The accused has, of his own free will, pleaded guilty to the charges."

Outside the courthouse, the crowd erupted in frenzied cheers, believing they had triumphed over the nobles. Meanwhile, the nobles felt justice had been served and that no wrong had been done to them, since House Ebenstein had admitted guilt of its own accord.

The officer continued, "The accused shall render forth the sum owed to the mother of the deceased for her son’s service. Should he fail in this duty, an equal amount of his assets shall be seized to satisfy the debt. Furthermore, he shall remain in custody within these halls and await such punishment as the Lord of Midlandia may adjudge, or until all matters are settled to the satisfaction of this court.”

The crowd cheered again, growing louder as more people learned of the verdict. Inside the courthouse, the hall grew much quieter. The witnesses were escorted out, and Sir Ebenstein was led to another chamber for respite. Beyond the walls, however, the crowd grew merrier and more festive by the moment.

For many of them, it was a bittersweet victory against the powerful and ruthless nobles: sweet because they had won it, bitter because at present only one could taste it, and only one was punished.

***

Lansius

Inside the slow-moving carriage, Lansius entertained Claire’s curiosity. He didn’t mind; he thought it good for all his retinue to share in his knowledge or catch a glimpse of his many plans. All the while, he patiently suppressed a tingling hunger after eating only a little that morning. Despite Audrey’s insistence, he was too absorbed in the many variables and high stakes of his plan to enjoy a proper meal.

“My Lord, I don’t understand. Perhaps it's because I’m not as clever as my sister,” Claire said, ashamed in a modest, girlish way that was uniquely hers.

Lansius snorted softly, amused. They were discussing why Sir Ebenstein might plead guilty.

“Pardon me if this makes you uncomfortable, but it might be useful to learn this early,” Lansius began. “As you might know, fear is irrational. Like a magical tree it can grow swiftly in someone’s mind when you plant the proper seeds. For example, if I told you that Sterling is meeting another fine-looking lady, you certainly would not believe it outright.”

Claire nodded, her expression turning serious without her noticing.

“However, you would likely begin searching his clothes, thinking it a harmless way to quell your anxiety. You might sniff his tunic for feminine scents or look for traces of rouge. You may find something or not, but then another question might arise: is his lack of coins because she has been showering another woman with gifts?”

“Fear is poison,” Sir Harold commented. “It kills the mind.”

Lansius leaned toward Claire. "Notice that even when you know it all lies, you can’t dismiss them outright. As Sir Harold said, fear is poison, and no one is immune. And what I planted in Sir Ebenstein’s mind was a far deadlier than the one you just heard.”

“I see,” Claire murmured, finding her voice. “Now I understand why Sir Ebenstein might plead guilty.”

Lansius eased back into his chair, settling into a relaxed posture. “Again, my apology for the crude example. Still, you are a young couple, and you may encounter such gossip in the future. When it happens, remember it might be just a poison. Give yourself time to think clearly and seek good counsel.”

Claire exhaled deeply before asking, “My Lord, is this why you grant the accused only a limited time?”

“A good observation,” Lansius remarked, clearly impressed. “Indeed. By denying Sir Ebenstein more time, I disturb his ability to think clearly.”

“He’ll play into your hand, My Lord,” Sir Harold said confidently. “With so many witnesses prepared, he’ll dread their testimony.”

“We have many witnesses?” Claire asked, hopeful.

“We have,” Lansius confirmed. “But I doubt any of them have ever met Sir Ebenstein, let alone his right-hand man or the petitioner’s son.”

Claire blinked in confusion as Lansius and Sir Harold shared a chuckle.

“That's all a ruse,” Sir Harold explained to her. “They’re like scarecrows to the birds. They won’t do anything except make Sir Ebenstein fear the possibilities.”

“Ah,” she remarked.

At that moment, a mounted messenger rode up. The guards parted to let him approach the carriage, and Sir Harold cracked the window a little.

“Sir, My Lord,” the rider greeted. “I come bearing word from your squire, Sterling.”

“Is it good news?” Sir Harold asked as he was the closest.

“Yes, Sir. Sir Ebenstein has pleaded guilty,” the messenger confirmed.

Inside, Lansius and Claire exhaled in relief. Yet Sir Harold remained guarded and asked, “Why do you still look concerned?”

“Sir, there are unexpected tidings from the streets,” the rider replied.

At a firm rap on the carriage wall, Lansius signaled the carriage to stop.

“Tell us,” Sir Harold instructed as the guards formed a tighter perimeter around them.

“The crowd that followed the proceedings was mostly satisfied, but many who did not are restless. Some even expect Sir Ebenstein to be dragged outside and receive a flogging.”

“That’s madness,” Sir Harold exclaimed. “He didn’t steal a horse or burn down someone’s hut. Why would they expect that?”

Inside, Lansius laughed, drawing their attention. “As I feared, even a favorable verdict will not satisfy everyone. Some people are simply too jaded and thirst for blood.”

“Then what should we do?” Claire dared to ask.

Without waiting for a reply, Sir Harold warned, “We need to act fast. This tightly packed crowd could become dangerous.”

Lansius’ tone grew ominous. “Indeed, there are probably close to ten thousand people gathered from the West Gate, here, and the courthouse. And now that our opponents know we are here, they might lash out and harm many people, including us.”

Before anyone could react, he added, “But don't worry. It's within my prediction.”

Soon, Francisca received an instruction and immediately climbed atop the carriage so the crowd could see her. They saw her and fell silent, signaling others to do the same and straining their ears to listen.

Effortlessly, the half-breed announced in her powerful, distinct voice, “We have just received word that the matter in the courthouse has been settled. Sir Ebenstein has pleaded guilty.”

Suddenly, cheers erupted around them as thousands cried out in jubilant celebration. Their faces glowed with delight. Many clasped hands, while others punched the air in triumph.

Francisca raised her voice again. “And to celebrate, the Lord has commanded the duck race to begin!”

An even larger cheer surged through the narrow street. Everyone along the road, on balconies above, and alongside the roadside stalls cried out with excitement. Even the guards looked jubilant.

Meanwhile, inside the carriage, Lansius frowned, puzzled that Francisca had announced a duck race when it should have been a horse race.

***