“Oh, you cut deep, my canonical partner.” Gunnar laughed loudly and Thaddeus, for a moment, worried the armies below might hear them.
Just then, the air went silent, a vacuum as the wind stilled, and with a great cry of voices and shaking of iron, the Normans and Saxons sprang forward. The din of battle rose up like a giant’s scream. Metal against metal sent up a wretched sound like nails on slate, ringing through the air like devilish gongs calling down the heavens right upon their heads. Soon, the wails of dying men melded perfectly with the sights and sounds of battle Thaddeus knew all too well.
At first, much to Thaddeus’ surprise, the cries of defeat and death came mostly from the Normans as the Saxons swarmed over them like angry hornets, their nest disturbed. He looked to his left and saw the small crook of a smile on Asaf’s lips. They drove the Normans back, inch-by-inch, shedding blood as they went. But then, the stampeding hooves of the Norman cavalry shook the earth, thundering like great war drums.
Now he could see the fear in the eyes of the Saxons as the Normans rode in, their lances blazing like fire in the morning sun. They were lowered, ready to spear men on their leaf-shaped tips, and within moments, they tore through Anglo-Saxon flesh like a scythe through harvest-ready wheat.
“The Lord have mercy on them,” Gunnar said and made the sign of the cross.
“The Almighty may not be here,” Asaf said. “He has abandoned them, cursing all efforts to retake their lands. So, what are we doing here?”
Neither of his companions answered, and Asaf continued, “I’m tired of seeing a bunch of backward Saxon whores die under the iron of an army of horse turds. If we aren’t here to help the Saxons, or Normans for that matter, then let’s go and do what the Lord has called us here to do. Have you seen enough?”
Thaddeus nodded and pulled his reins to the side, turning Polemistes around. They rode down the gentle hill from the plateau where they watched the battle, its sounds fading, and Thaddeus was glad for it. He had seen more than a lifetime’s worth of death, but the sounds were always worse, the cursing and the cries and the screams of the fallen.
They turned their horses south, towards where the Lord was sending them. Thaddeus’s vision didn’t tell him, directly, where they were supposed to go, but when they landed in Bamburgh on the Northumbrian coast, he knew their duty would take them south. Sometimes it was a person who led them, and at times it was a landmark he saw in his dreams. But for now, he would have to follow his gut.
As they turned to avoid a thick copse of trees, they skirted the edge of the battlefield and could see the fighting was all but over. It had spread out across a larger area, into smaller fights between individual men as one sought to flee, and an enemy gave chase. However, with the battle over and won, most of the surviving Normans marched northeast.
A loud yell caught Thaddeus’ attention, and he turned to see a Saxon man running towards them. He was a tall fellow with broad shoulders, but the scraggly beard on his face showed youth; despite his age, he wore a mail shirt, something typically reserved for the wealthier Saxon hearthguard. Thaddeus had never mastered the language of the Anglo-Saxons—it seemed to change with every generation—but the man was yelling something to him.
Thaddeus halted Polemistes, turned and drew his sword. Gunnar and Asaf did the same, the Norseman also readying his long spear, and the defrocked priest took up his hammer. The Saxon held up his long sword and his leather-bound round shield, which held a nasty crack as if he was signifying he wasn’t a threat. But before he could reach the trio, a Norman soldier raced up behind the man, swinging his sword after him.
The Norman’s long sword landed haphazardly against the Saxon’s hip. It drew no blood but was levied hard enough to bruise. The Saxon stumbled and fell to a knee and then turned in time to block another Norman attack. As the Norman’s blade struck the Saxon’s shield, the wood split even more, and the Saxon threw it aside.
The Norman swung twice, each time the Saxon gracefully dodging the attacks—the sign of a trained warrior; a hearthguard indeed. The Norman was trained as well, and certainly better than most of the Anglo-Saxons they fought, but not better than this man and, in frustration, turned to attacking with pure muscle and rage. Back on his feet, the Saxon returned the attack, his blade slicing across the Norman’s sword arm. He attacked again, but the Norman blocked the long sword. In response, the Norman swung down hard overhead three times, each time barely missing the Anglo-Saxon, his iron blade hissing through the air like a flaming arrow.
This went on for several minutes, a back-and-forth show of strength and determination versus finesse and training, but it was the Norman who tired first. His attacks became more awkward and careless, and the Saxon pressed his attack, pushing his foe back on his heels. The Norman’s appearance had been of a haughty leader, an important knight, but now his pale skin, glistening with sweat, and his shaped black beard were a stark contrast to the Anglo-Saxon’s sandy hair and ruddy complexion. Thaddeus could see the weariness in his shoulders, the fatigue throughout his body.
The Norman dropped his sword—only for a moment; it was all the Anglo-Saxon soldier needed. He gripped his long sword in both hands, and he swung hard. Thaddeus heard bone crack as the iron fell hard on the Norman’s shoulder and his knees buckled. He stepped sideways, his left arm hanging loose at his side, and the Anglo-Saxon swung again, and his sword caught the Norman in the ribs.
The long sword wasn’t meant for stabbing, with its tip rounded it was meant for slashing and clubbing, but nonetheless, the Saxon thrust. His cheeks puffed out, and his face turning red, the weapon pierced the cloth hauberk, broke through chest bone, and pushed out the Norman’s back between his shoulder blades.
Thaddeus saw the look on Gunnar’s face, contorted and disgusted. He felt the same. He had seen worse, much worse, more times than he could count or remember, but every time a man died right in front of him, it turned his stomach.
The Saxon pulled his sword free, and the Norman fell sideways, staring to the sky for a moment. His glassy gaze turned to Thaddeus, and he couldn’t help wondering if the man silently cursed them for not helping. Then, his eyes rolled back, a trail of blood escaped his mouth, and he breathed his last.
The Saxon turned again to face Thaddeus and his companions and dropped his sword on the ground before he rested his hands on his knees, panting to get his breath back. He lifted his head and yelled something, but Thaddeus didn’t know what he was saying. He looked to Gunnar. The Norseman’s native language was closely related to the language of the Anglo-Saxons.
“What did he say?” Thaddeus asked.
“Help,” Gunnar replied, “and something like we are the ones he’s looking for.”
“Do you think he’s the Lord’s vessel?” Asaf asked, but Thaddeus had not time to reply, as Gunnar tapped him on the shoulder with the tip of his spear and then pointed across the field. Three other Normans were running towards the Saxon, the desire for death and revenge on their faces. The heavy shrug and then slump in the Saxon’s shoulders showed acceptance of defeat.
“If he’s the one to lead us to the Lord’s mission, shouldn’t we help him?” Gunnar asked.
“I don’t know if he is,” Thaddeus said. “I didn’t see him in my dream.”
“Do we take that chance?” Gunnar asked. “You have not always seen the one who was the messenger, so can we let these Normans kill the man who might be the one to lead us to the Lord’s work?”
“No.” Thaddeus shook his head. “Asaf?”
The cleric shook his head and shrugged.
“Why the hell not?”
“Good,” replied Thaddeus and nudged Polemistes forward. “Do you think they speak Latin?”
“No,” Gunnar said. “They are simple foot soldiers.”
“What language do the Normans speak?”
“I think the same language as the Franks,” Asaf replied.
“Back down,” Thaddeus said in Frankish.
One soldier laughed, another
scowled, and the last one cursed.
“I don’t think they want to comply,” Gunnar said.
“I think you’re right,” Thaddeus replied as he nudged Polemistes again, moving his horse in between the Saxon and the Normans.
“Move away,” he said. “Go back to your commanders, go back to your company and live another day.”
The Normans replied by laughing, and Thaddeus studied the three soldiers. As Gunnar said, they were simple Norman foot soldiers, not the type to attack, unprovoked, a horsed swordsman, let alone three. Yet, these men laughed. They were different. Something else drove their desire to kill this Saxon. He thought he saw the faintest glimmer, a flash of light, in one of the soldier’s eyes, even though the sun had gone behind the clouds.
“You don’t want to do this,” Thaddeus said in Frankish, knowing his words would fall on deaf ears. It didn’t matter what he said; these men would attack even if it meant their deaths. “Today is not a good day to die.”
One Norman tried to move behind Thaddeus, but Gunnar’s spear struck the man in the chest as another soldier tried to move to the front of Polemistes. Thaddeus pulled hard on his horse’s reins, and the horse reared up and kicked out with its forelegs. One hoof slammed against the man’s forehead, and he crumpled to the ground. The last Norman soldier tried to charge Thaddeus straight on, and a flash of steel removed the soldier’s sword arm just above the elbow.
Thaddeus dismounted and, sword still drawn, stood over the soldier. The Norman held his stump as blood spilled over his hand. He rolled about and kicked out, slamming his heels into the ground as he seethed through clenched teeth. He didn’t cry, and he didn’t ask for mercy. He looked at Thaddeus with dark, furled eyebrows and malice in his dark eyes. He cursed. That strange glint again.
“I take no pleasure in this,” Thaddeus said, placing the point of his sword above the man’s collarbone. “I told you to leave. This man has earned his life today and, if you had listened, you would have earned yours as well. But blood lust cost you your life.”
“Let the dirty dog suffer,” Asaf said. “He should have listened. He deserves to bleed to death.”
“And who are we to determine what a man deserves?” Thaddeus asked, keeping his eyes trained on the Norman soldier. “Did Stephen deserve his death at the hands of Saul of Tarsus? And did Paul deserve his death at the hands of the Romans?”
“Are you comparing this man to holy martyrs?” Asaf asked. Thaddeus could hear the derision in his voice. “Why not just compare him to our Lord Christ and his suffering upon to cross?”
Thaddeus smiled. Then, he turned to the dying Norman who spat at Thaddeus.
“Do you wish to confess your sins?” Thaddeus asked.
The soldier’s eyes darkened, the glint leaving them like a snuffed-out candle and his head shook rapidly, side to side as he groaned and foamed at the mouth.
“He’s having a fit?” Asaf questioned.
“Wrong. He’s possessed,” Gunnar replied.
The soldier stopped and glared at Thaddeus. He was calm, and he smiled.
“The pain that has been prepared for you is far greater than this,” the Norman soldier said, lifting his stump.
Now Thaddeus knew the purpose behind the Normans’ attack had not been one of simple revenge, but there was something about this Saxon, as well as this soldier and his companions, that made them attack … want to kill them. He pressed his sword, the point breaking the man’s skin at his neck.
“And what is your reward?” Thaddeus asked. “If you serve the evil one, what will be your reward for failure? Ask for forgiveness, and the Lord will welcome you into his arms this day.”
“Piss on you and your …”
Before he could finish, Thaddeus pressed the point of his blade into the Norman’s neck. His eyes went wide, and blood poured from his mouth and nose. His eyes turned black, and blood flowed from them as well, as if it were tears. His whole body shook, so violently there were cracks as joints dislocated. And then he lay still.
“This is not good,” Gunnar said with a slight shake of his head.
Thaddeus turned to face the Saxon soldier who left his sword on the ground and put up his hands. Gunnar and Asaf nudged their horses up behind the man.
“And what about you?” Thaddeus asked.
Chapter 2
“WHO IS HE?” Thaddeus asked.
“His name is Alden; a Mercian,” Gunnar replied. “He says he’s a hearthguard to someone important, but he won’t say who.”
“Were most of the Saxons who fought here Northumbrian?” Thaddeus asked.
“Aye,” Gunnar said with a nod.
As much as the Saxons hated the Normans and had fought for the last thirty years to reclaim their lands from the influx of immigrants from Normandy, as well as other Frankish provinces, they were as fractionalized as many other places. Each small area of England fought with the others and claimed superiority. Northumbrians hated Mercians, who hated Wessexers and Sussexers. It was this way until a man who called himself Alfred the Great, from Wessex, united the seven kingdoms of England. Even then, he could do little against Danish raids, and infighting still went on.
Alden spoke to Gunnar again. He understood some Latin, being an elite Saxon soldier, but not enough to carry on a conversation with Thaddeus.
“He says he was looking for us,” Gunnar said with a shrug.
“I don’t like this,” Asaf said. “He’s an agent of the Devil.”
“Just a moment ago you agreed he could be the one to lead us to our holy mission,” Thaddeus replied.
“Well, I’ve changed my mind,” Asaf said.
The Saxon spoke again, Gunnar translating as he did.
“He’s from a shire,” Gunnar said, “called Derbyshire. It’s two days’ ride from here.”
“Why is he so far from home?” Asaf asked.
“Looking for us,” Gunnar replied. “There’s a bishop in Derbyshire, rather, in a town in Derbyshire called Chesterfield. He’s the one who sent Alden. He knew what we would look like. He says the Lord led him here, through his dreams. Apparently, he saw us, up on that plateau, and got caught up in the fighting.”
“Sounds like witchcraft to me,” Asaf said.
“We have dreams leading us to do the Lord’s work,” Thaddeus said.
“Yes, but, we’re good Christian men,” Asaf replied.
“Well, I’m a good Christian man,” Gunnar said with a smile.
“Jest all you want,” Asaf said, “but this land, as well as its people, are still wild, and paganism is in their blood.”
“Paganism is in all our blood,” Thaddeus said. He turned to Gunnar, waving a hand loosely in the direction of the dead Normans. “What about them?”
Gunnar looked to Alden, and their conversation was short and hushed.
“Through the whole battle, they seemed to follow him,” Gunnar translated. “He says they … they smelled.”
Asaf gave Thaddeus a worried look.
“Demon stink,” the former priest said.
“Aye,” Thaddeus replied. “Find him a horse, Gunnar. We will follow him. Asaf, we need to tend to the dying.”
†
The screaming and crying of the wounded faded as they left the site of the battle behind. What few Anglo-Saxons who survived enough to remain on their feet had fled to the northwest and the remaining Normans had marched off to the northeast.
“Where do you think they’re going?” Asaf asked, staring off in the direction in which the Norman force had marched.
“There was a man who spoke Latin at that hostel in York,” Thaddeus replied.
“Aye. I remember him,” Asaf replied.
“Truly,” Thaddeus said with a smile. “You seemed rather consumed by their good ale.”
“It was anything but good,” Asaf replied with a wave of his hand.
“We had a long conversation, him saying a good number of folk were traveling north, to a place called Alnwick,” Thaddeus said. “It’s an ol
d Roman fort, one I remember vaguely. The Saxons built a hundred-foot palisade around the fort, and a castle also called Alnwick. Now the Normans are building another castle of stone and mortar north of here, and they’re paying Saxons to help build it. I suspect those Normans might be going to Alnwick or Richmond Castle in Hindrelag. I suppose if King William Rufus plans on invading Scotland, either would be a good enough launching point.”
Thaddeus looked around the battlefield. In the year of our Lord 1093, the scene was the same as it always had been. When the Huns invaded Rome, when Rome fell, the fall of Alexandria, when the Umayyad’s conquered Iberia, the invasions of the Magyars, the conquests of Charlemagne—the aftermaths were always the same—no matter how many battles, no matter how many armies, no matter how many generals and how many men, the scene never changed, and Thaddeus could predict what would happen next. In moments, the scavengers would come. If the battlefield were close to a town, which it often was, in an hour, mothers and sisters and wives and daughters would be here, searching through the dead, wailing and cursing. The priest would come after them, praying and singing psalms and hymns. Then the undertakers would arrive with their oxcarts to carry the bodies away.
And the scavengers came. Most might think when someone said the word they spoke of ravens or wild dogs, of wolves or even bears. In the east, beyond the Holy Land, they were the flies and beetles. In Africa, they were jackals and buzzards and hyenas. But no, these scavengers were no dog or bird.
“Animals,” Asaf said. “Cursed animals.”
“Where do they come from?” Gunnar asked, having found a stray Norman horse, its rider defeated, for their new Saxon friend. “They appear so quickly after the battle, like ghosts out of thin air,” he added, riding up next to Thaddeus and Asaf.
“Demons,” Asaf muttered, his eyebrows lowered in distaste.
“Aye,” Thaddeus replied. “Some might be. It seems we’ve already seen several today … at least, men possessed by demons.”
To Kill a Witch Page 2