Dark Weather

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  It was shaped like a child of perhaps four or five years old and its face was cherubic, hands small and soft, legs and feet in leafy greens. It stretched out pleading fingers and suddenly began to sob.

  “Help me.” The voice was piteous and weak, just a childish squeak. “Save me.” Falling to its little knees, it pleaded, crying again, the tears marking the small round cheeks. “I am lost. I beg to be saved. These creatures will eat me if you don’t take pity.”

  The thing was adorable. But this was no little child abducted by demons.

  The pitiful child opened its mouth and vampire teeth sprang outwards, oozing blood. It screamed and swore. The cursing was so vulgar, it made me laugh.

  “You don’t even know what those words mean,” I shouted back. “You’re just a demon. You know cruelty, not love.”

  The dimpled baby screeched, hurling stones at me, but the stones rebounded against the invisible barrier.

  A rich blue face peered through the oak leaves. “I wish nothing against you. We are free because you slaughtered Lilith. It will be a hundred years before she can steal us back and imprison us in symbolism. You are my friend, not my enemy. But you must give us our saviour.”

  “He is almost one of us,” screeched a thing in the birch tree. “So close. When he joins us, he will be the greatest of all. Together we will be the signpost for Hell.”

  All my determination to practise the destruction of these things, and to increase my courage and confidence, seemed lost. I choked, and ran to the kitchen where I stood panting, as though unable to think. Pouring myself a very strong Vodka and peach juice. Too early, but I didn’t care.

  It had to be Vespasian, and we both knew it. I welcomed the chance to help, but it wouldn’t be me killing these creatures. The plan he was about to enforce would be principally for himself. A man who could see and understand such things would take the arrival of danger as a package addressed to him. A message saying, ‘Deal with this as only you can.’

  Chapter Six

  The evening, was now approaching the time of departure. The tune of Old Lang Syne drifted into my head. But I wasn’t singing anything now. Randle was in bed and fast asleep, while Vespasian was stretched, as usual, on the long-cushioned couch. The old stereo player was softly lyrical with my old CDs playing the music he loved. As Rachmaninov followed Delius, he looked up from his book.

  “Ready, little one? Happy? Happiness compliments readiness.”

  Sometimes I still didn’t entirely understand him. I was cuddled beside him watching the television, but the sound was turned to mute as we listened to the music we both enjoyed far more than any film.

  “Yes, both,” I replied softly. “Ready. Totally ready. And wonderfully happily excited. But scared too.”

  His arm crept around my shoulders, and he kissed my cheek. “Questions?”

  I’d had enough of questions and cuddled back down with the pleasure of Vespasian’s close warmth, the swelling glory of the music, and the silent adventures of Tyrion and the dragons on the screen before us.

  My husband’s life during the thirteenth century had not included books of any kind except the Bible and the occasional Arabic or Latin scroll. Amongst his greatest delights in the modern world was the discovery of literature, both fiction and non-fiction, alongside the fascination of the internet and computer access. But he still liked his books in tangible and printed editions. I had progressed to a Kindle, but we soon had a house of overflowing book shelves.

  And perhaps top of his list of splendid new loves was music. The religious chanting had been quite beautiful in his original lifetime, but repetitious. Some equally repetitious dancing music had also existed. The music more often heard was the crudely erotic songs sung in the taverns after a good few cups of ale. Now the variation and complication of modern music hit Vespasian with delight. He spent days, especially out in the summer sunshine, listening to every musical variety he could discover, even those he immediately disliked, but especially those he loved such as Dvorak, Beethoven and a hundred others. It was a few moments later when he interrupted my memories.

  “My beloved. We must now dress in the appropriate clothes, and I shall check on Randle if you wish to make the final touches to the food we’ll bring.”

  I nodded at once and jumped up. The old pendulum clock in the corridor was chiming eleven times. One for each remaining demon. No, that wasn’t a good association, and I refused to go anywhere near the windows.

  Firstly, I followed him into Randall’s room, watching as he bent low over the bed, kissing our little boy’s forehead, stroking the hair back behind his ear, and whispering words I could only imagine. I crept away then, and hurried back for the very last jobs waiting to be finished.

  Amongst many other suggestions, Vespasian had decided to take an old-fashioned basket of food with us, carefully avoiding anything that would be entirely out of possibility for the era. But where – and when – we were going would include the starving and we didn’t want to starve alongside them.

  Vespasian helped me dress as these were not the sort of clothes I was used to. Mine were purposefully shabby, but his were grand. Not ermine or purple silk, but the clothes of a respectable man, not wealthy but economically comfortable. I, on the other hand, was just a village woman with more brains than I could demonstrate.

  Without zips I found those old clothes hard to put on, but when Vespasian grasped his new britches and jacket, he was already stripped off. And now, once again, it was him that I was watching. I was a dishevelled grump most mornings and just clambered into a warm dressing gown, but this was one of the most important evenings of my life, and I was alert to everything. Including the naked man I loved. Now late at night, the chill drifted through every unheated room, but Vespasian clearly had no problem with chilly weather. Crossing the bedroom to close the curtains, he stayed to watch whatever he had noticed outside. I stayed where I could watch Vespasian himself. Almost as tall as the window, he was slim muscled and sinewy. The obvious strength slipped through his body like liquid. His shoulders were wide, hips narrow, buttocks only slightly curved and a little concave at both sides as though once caught between the anvil and the hammer. I thought him utterly beautiful. His skin was hard and deeply scarred in places, but appeared sun-tanned even in winter. He did enjoy outside lounging, and rarely bothered with a shirt, leading to deep colour. But his body was always a mellow skin-tone, perhaps from his original Italian inheritance. Hair rich black, dark eyes, and only light streaks of body hair. Then quickly turning, he dressed himself and turned into someone quite different. Suddenly he was a gentleman of the 17th century, no wig but a wide, feathered hat, and clothes that echoed his hair colouring.

  I was sitting on the bed, our basket of food, torches and other necessities on my lap. He came over and stood directly before me, holding out both arms to me.

  “Come here, little one.”

  I stood and he wrapped me against him, almost crushing my head to his neck. I felt his heartbeat, and mine too, strong and steady. I peeped up at him. I could hear the clock chiming and knew it was already midnight. Only Randle could have stopped us now, and we knew he was deeply sleeping.

  “Ready,” I said.

  “Close your eyes, my love,” Vespasian told me so very softly. “Think of nothing and expect nothing. Hold tight and do not move.”

  I was still studiously following those words when I felt warm air blowing on the back of my neck. My hair was pinned up under a starched cap, and I had been shivering. Now I was warm, but I didn’t open my eyes and nor did I move.

  Birds were calling. I heard the rich gravely caw of a raven, and then the repeated call of starlings. Vespasian’s arms continued to hold me so tightly that I held my breath. It was after some moments more that I heard the soft voice saying, “We are here, my love. Open your eyes.”

  So I did, to a sinking sun across a tangled horizon and the sparks of flames at a short distance.

  Chapter Seven

  The campfi
re blazed as the twigs crackled and spat and slowly turned to ashes as the meat gradually roasted dark in the embers.

  The perfumes rose higher than the flames. Roast pig, blackened, the skin like black daggers. Vespasian’s eyes reflected the fire and the tunnels were now burning red. He appeared almost as a demon himself.

  I had turned away, disgusted and horrified as the stolen pig squealed in terror when dragged to the butcher’s knife. But I ate the meat. It was delicious, and I was immediately hungry.

  It was almost night when, with a private nod in my direction, Vespasian left me and sauntered out of sight, aiming for the tents erected for the leaders and their officers. I was staring up at that endless sky, the stars were silver glimmers between the flying darts of scarlet and the huge flames, their tips dancing high in the cold wind.

  We slept in our clothes, cloaks pulled across our bodies like rugs. I was shivering as the fire burned low, but the ashes held some warmth, and although now simply bones, claws and stomach, the smell of the wretched pig floated safely cocooned in the smoke.

  I had no idea where we were – except it was England. But I knew when. This was the war that divided England in the 1640s, when a thousand skirmishes culminated in the massacre of the Irish and English peoples, the be-heading of the British King Charles I and the rule of Oliver Cromwell.

  It was also the time when witches were called evil, and persecuted. Folk believed in demons, curses, and the small animal kept by a witch to be the fetch of messages between herself and the devil.

  When I was young, I believed in none of this, thinking it rubbish. That’s the modern opinion. But once I became Tilda, I knew a great deal of that was true. Although not with the childish superstitions of the past, for no fetch existed, and the little black cats that were drowned or burned were cruelly made to suffer for nothing. Most of those hanged as wicked, were as innocent as any cleric, more so than some. Indeed, I doubted if witches existed at all during those bitter times, yet I had come to know the truth of demons.

  In a long tunic of blue wool, loosely tied over linen petticoats, I was the slattern I had often felt, the whore who followed any army, hoping for food and perhaps even affection. Vespasian was amongst the rebels and would fight, if necessary, for Cromwell. He needed to get close. He would be doing whatever he felt necessary, whereas I was waiting desperately for his return while camping down with the ragged bunch of followers. There was one woman and her boy that I was to befriend. “Agnes Oats carries the demon in its earlier existence and before it came to nest in our oak tree,” Vespasian told me. “And she has a boy with her. Perhaps her son.”

  As yet, I had not met them. So amongst this crowd of simmering and ragged mass of beggars and camp followers, wives and children of those who fought for the future they hoped would treat them more kindly was the woman I had to befriend. They argued and fought, quarrelled and swore, cold and hungry unless they pushed forwards towards the fire, and grabbed the roast pork before every scrap was finished. The heave and squash unravelled tempers, and the skirmishes of rape and stabbing seemed as though the battlefield also stretched here.

  Some guarded the barrows of weapons, and once the fighting began children were sent scurrying with arrows, musket balls and pikes, delivering to those who marched, and needed to be ready.

  If the enemy were the first to raise their bows, then the loss of the battle could be decided in those initial moments.

  I adjusted quickly to the words I had never heard before, the accents and pronunciation alive back then but now lost in time. Yet the language was an automatic adjustment included in the time flash, although there was not much else that I could call easy. In a way, I didn’t want it easy. Travelling back in time with Vespasian was the greatest adventure I could imagine although he was no longer actually close to me, and the adventure buzzed like fireworks in my head. I wanted the challenge. After more than three years of luxurious comfort and the caressing silk of utter love, never boring but often predictable, I finally decided my life needed to simmer again.

  But I had not yet begun demon slaying.

  The camp followers bundled down, eager to sleep unless they were needed to help treat the wounded, bring in new supplies and carry messages. A woman flopped herself on the muddy grass beside me and gathered her skirts around her. “He starts with a cavalry charge, always does. First one – then the second. Tis a great leader, our brave Oliver.”

  “I don’t know him,” I said. “I know nothing of him.” I sounded as stupid as I felt.

  “You know naught of the leader you follow?” She snorted contempt.

  I was in Cromwell’s camp of believers and had to play the part. I lifted my chin. “I follow his beliefs. No king has the right to do whatever he likes by right of the Lord God. King Charles is arrogant and thinks himself to be another god.”

  There was no one wanting to squabble with me as long as I kept a veneer of sweet natured simplicity. Actually, I was content to wander. The scenery was not beautiful, but the skies soared and so did the birds. I saw birds I’d never seen before, and little red squirrels scrambled up the tree trunks, nervous of the noise we made.

  It was the next morning, the sky still thickly clouded, when a buzz ran through the crowd. The battle was imminent. The king’s forces had been sighted, although they had camped on the opposite side of the ridge. Now Cromwell was calling his troops to wake and prepare. A current of excitement ran through the campsite like the waves on the beach. I heard horses neighing and snorting and the shouts of the men calling them to saddle.

  We woke quickly, stretching, jumping up and grasping whatever we had for breaking fast. Nothing was prepared, and nothing was what most folk had.

  A boy stumbled past me, and I offered him a stale remnant of my sandwich, buttered and filled with egg and tomato. He didn’t say thank you. He just cried, opened his mouth, dribbled tears, sniffed loudly and stuffed the sandwich between his broken teeth, all gone in three huge stuffed bites. Clearly, he’d been starving. I’d offered him food because he’d looked half dead already with legs so skinny the fleshless bones were all that was visible, and his arms were just as thin. He was a stick beneath raggy red curls, and he had hollows instead of cheeks.

  Having gulped down the last crumb, he ran off and hurled himself into a fat woman I could see close to the fire. So I followed him and walked over. The woman glowered, saying, “I don’t know you, lass. You been talking to my Tom?”

  “He was hungry.” I nodded, looking from his craggy little face to her double chins. “I had some food I could spare so I gave it to him,”

  Wiping his eyes and then his mouth on the back of his hand, the child appeared settled, but the woman still frowned. “You wanna share, lass, then you do it, and I ain’t complainin’. But share with the old folks as well as the brats.”

  Wanting to point out that he was skin and bone while she was all lard, I managed to smile instead. “I’m Molly. I don’t know your names.”

  “Ask the lad,” the woman said loudly. “’Tis him you done befriended, I reckon.”

  The boy had closed his eyes and said nothing. I bit my own lip, not permitting myself to be as rude as I’d have liked. But it was an elderly man sitting next to us who spoke, leaning across me to the woman’s stare of disapproval. “So, jealous, is we? You watches yer lad eat, and wants more yerself?”

  The boy spoke for the first time. “She’s me Aunt Agnes. Was here wiv me pa, wot’s fighting fer the right. But has bin injured, me pa, and no doubt will die.”

  I was sorry and said so. Now knowing the woman was not the boy’s mother, I partially but silently forgave Agnes for starving him. “Agnes Oaks? I asked quickly. So I had virtually fallen over the woman housing the demon, and now had to stay close. I expected a question from Agnes as to how I knew her second name, but she seemed uninterested. More interesting was the news churning through our crowd in an excited mumble.

  The older man, licking the snot from his leaking nose, threw up both hands and
yelled, “Parliament has won again, and our men are coming over to celebrate their victory.”

  “Is the bastard king dead?” chorused several others.

  But it was a woman who stood nearby, hands on hips, and roared, “No, the bugger still lives. But he don’t reign no more. And he’s no king o’ mine.”

  Agnes lay back, hands behind her head, and smiled at me. “So the bugger’ll be chucked into prison for the rest o’ his life. Maybe get rid o’ the bastard forever and ever. I reckons they’ll chop his smug little brain from his skinny neck.”

  Although the battle had taken place at a considerable distance from the campsite, we heard the noise clear enough, and I felt more squeamish than I’d expected. The clashing, explosion of the flintlock muskets seemed continuous and the firing of the cannon drowned out all others. Yet most of the men seemed to be armed with only those old-fashioned pikes, gathering in circles with the points outwards, a simple defence. What I hated most, cuddled there in the damp mud, were the screams of the dying and the roar of the onslaught. The horses screamed too, as they fell in pain, and lay injured.

  Some of the men, summoned from their beds to fight again, were armed with little more than a knife or a sword handed down from Tudor days within the family.

  The woman next to me said, “Sometimes they go on all day. Or it might be over in minutes.”

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  “Naseby over the Ridge. Don’t you know nothing, girl?”

  She was probably younger than I was, but her face was lined and haggard, and her hands were pock-marked.

  Agnes was complacent, unmoved by the clash and the screams. I smiled at Tom as he crawled to his aunt’s knee. “You’ve had a hard life?” He stared back in total silence. So I turned back to the woman. “So is his mother dead too?”