To Kill a Witch

by Christopher Patterson

  “Accursed?” Thaddeus said with a smile. “This is God’s country.”

  “It’s a rat turd,” Asaf said. “It’s a big rat fart smelling rat turd filled with backward people.”

  “You are too harsh,” Gunnar said. “They are good people.”

  “They are uncivilized,” Asaf said.

  “The Greeks and the Romans tossed that term about quite a bit,” Thaddeus said and smiled at the memory.

  “Tossed what term about?” Gunnar asked.

  “Uncivilized,” Thaddeus replied. “Barbarian. They called many people by those names as they burned and crucified and stoned and slaughtered them. The barbarism of the Greeks and the Romans overshadowed all they labeled as such.”

  “Come now, Thaddeus, I didn’t mean—”

  “I know what you meant, Asaf,” Thaddeus replied, “but we must remember, these are only people, like any other people. Light or dark hair, light or dark skin, whatever language they speak, God has summoned us here to—what I suspect—help these people. This makes them very important to our Lord and, therefore, civilized … whatever that word really means.”

  “And those men who are not Christians?” Gunnar asked.

  “We show them the love and kindness the civilized Romans failed to show our Lord and Savior and, hopefully, they come to know the joy found in our Lord,” Thaddeus replied.

  Passing through the barren farmlands, within another hour, they saw buildings that Alden told them was Chesterfield. The dawning sun highlighted either forests or large, open and communal farmlands surrounding the town, but the fields looked fallow, despite it being late spring. With the remnants of the Roman fort on which it was built still very much present, a wall surrounded much of the town and the gate leading into it. It looked to be void of the original gate and had a watchtower only slightly taller than the wall.

  “This looks familiar,” Thaddeus said with a smile.

  “A good memory,” Asaf said, the tone of his voice unusually soft and pleasant.

  “It reminds me of my first post,” Thaddeus replied.

  Thaddeus could see most of the people were Anglo-Saxon, and when they saw them—a broad-shouldered Greek with olive skin and a dark beard, a giant of a Norseman, and a curly haired, brown skinned Jew—the townspeople hurried inside their simple homes or looked away if shelter wasn’t available.

  Riding past the manor house, it looked unoccupied at the moment, with naught but servants tending to the front gardens, which looked as bad as the barren farmlands. A church sat towards the center of the town, and as they rode towards it, a small man, especially for a Saxon, with white hair and a wide, white, bushy beard, heavyset with age, limped towards them. Alden spoke to Gunnar quickly before dismounting and walking towards the old man.

  “He is the old chieftain of this town,” Gunnar said.

  “A Saxon?” Asaf asked.

  “He is no longer chieftain,” Gunnar explained, “but apparently many of the Anglo-Saxon people still look to him for guidance. Alden said we should wait here.”

  Alden and the old man spoke for a long time, at times seemingly arguing, until Alden returned and spoke to Gunnar.

  “Does Alden owe this man allegiance?” Thaddeus asked.

  “No,” Gunnar replied, “but I guess he was letting this chieftain know he was here, out of respect. His allegiance is to this king he keeps talking about, but really, I believe it is to the bishop whom he is taking us to see.”

  “Is this so-called king a member of some former Saxon royal family?” Asaf asked.

  “I thought they all fled to Ireland or Byzantium,” Thaddeus said.

  “Most of them did,” Gunnar replied. “At least, that’s what Alden says. But this man has stayed hidden in Britannia with the hopes they might regain control of the country from the Normans.”

  “Truly?” Thaddeus asked.

  “Truly,” Gunnar replied.

  “Fools,” Asaf said.

  “Would you chide a man for not wanting to regain control of his country?” Thaddeus asked.

  “I would scold a man for hoping for something when all hope is gone,” Asaf replied.

  Thaddeus just shook his head.

  “This can’t be our mission,” Asaf said. “To help some deposed royal family to regain the throne of a lost country.”

  “We need to teach this Saxon more Latin,” Thaddeus said as Alden remounted his horse, “so you don’t have to constantly translate.”

  “Why don’t you just learn the language of the Angles?” Gunnar asked.

  “Preposterous,” Asaf guffawed.

  Gunnar laughed, as did Thaddeus.

  “We could,” Thaddeus replied, “although I wonder how long his language will survive as the Normans conquer his people.”

  “I will start teaching him,” Gunnar said.

  “Your Latin is terrible,” Asaf said.

  “Well enough for you to understand,” Gunnar replied, laughing. “Would you prefer to teach him Greek? Or, even better yet, Hebrew?”

  Asaf waved the Norseman off with a nonchalant hand and then asked if the shire was still held by Saxons.”

  “I don’t think so,” Thaddeus said. “Gunnar, ask Alden.”

  Gunnar did, and Alden shook his head before replying.

  “He says, in order to maintain peace, since William Rufus became king, he has allowed many Saxon lords to remain in power and keep their lands,” Gunnar explained. “In some places, like Chesterfield, he has even allowed the locals to police and govern themselves. But the lord of this shire is a man named William Peverell, a close friend of William Rufus’ father. Alden says Peverell’s mother was a Saxon noble and, so, he has been rather kind to the Anglo-Saxon people.”

  “Interesting,” Thaddeus muttered.

  Many of the roads in Chesterfield were cobbled, more evidence of the Romans, and all roads appeared to lead to a marketplace adjacent to the church.

  “That is not Roman,” Asaf said.

  “No, it is not,” Thaddeus replied.

  “All Saints’ Church,” Gunnar translated as Alden spoke to him. “A recent gift from both William Peverell and King William Rufus. That is where we must go and meet whomever we are supposed to meet.”

  It seemed most of the citizens of Chesterfield gathered in the marketplace, buying and selling goods, or just congregating. Again, Thaddeus and Gunnar and Asaf did not go unnoticed; they were foreigners there, and foreigners had changed these people’s lives forever. Some whispered, some talked loudly, some shouted. After Alden dismounted again, he seemed to argue with several men, and when one of them pushed Alden and bent low to pick up a rock, all sound in the marketplace stopped.

  Gunnar poised the tip of his spear at the man’s chest and said something in the language of the Angles. The man dropped the rock and stepped back. Alden looked up at Gunnar, nodded quickly, and then jerked his head, signaling for them to follow.

  Two men wearing Saxon mail and holding long spears stood in front of the church. They looked at the three strangers warily

  “Is it common for armed soldiers to guard churches here in Britannia?” Asaf asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Thaddeus replied. “Why are you asking me?”

  “Haven’t you been here before?” Asaf asked.

  “That was many years ago,” Thaddeus replied, “before the churches.”

  “They are on guard,” Gunnar said, “worried.”

  “I imagine so,” Thaddeus said.

  Alden turned around to face Thaddeus, putting his forefinger to his lips, and Thaddeus nodded. The three warriors dismounted, handing their reins to one of the guards, hearthguards like Alden, and the other opened the front door of the church.

  “No cloister?” Asaf asked.

  “No,” Thaddeus replied, shaking his head. “Saxon churches are much simpler constructions.”

  As the men passed through the narthex, they each dipped their fingers into a small baptismal font and made the sign of the cross on their forehead
s. A familiar scent of incense hit Thaddeus’s nose, and he smiled.

  The church was empty, save for a monk adjusting something on the altar at the far end of the church, his back to the men. Thaddeus brought his hand to the handle of his sword.

  “Be aware,” he said.

  “What are you doing?” Asaf asked. “You would draw your blade in the house of God?”

  “This man is no Angle, nor is he a Saxon,” Thaddeus replied in Greek.

  “How do you know?” Gunnar asked.

  “His head is shaved,” Thaddeus replied.

  “Like any monk,” Asaf added.

  “Like any Roman monk,” Thaddeus said.

  Thaddeus grabbed Alden’s arm. He didn’t speak the man’s language, but the look he gave the Saxon said everything he needed to.

  “Where God builds a church,” Thaddeus said in Greek, “the Devil builds a chapel.”

  The monk seemed to continue to move—clean perhaps—things around the altar, although Thaddeus could tell the man shifted a bit as he spoke to him. He said the Gothic proverb again, this time in Latin.

  The monk spun to face the warriors and Alden. Thaddeus could see the handle of a short sword poking through the man’s tunic.

  “How dare you speak of the deceiver in the Lord’s house,” the monk said in Latin.

  “Truly,” Thaddeus replied, “but who is the deceiver? You pretend to be an Anglican monk, and yet, you are not.”

  “There was no pretense on my part,” the monk said, walking slowly down the steps leading to the altar and tugging on his graying beard, combed to a point. “It was merely an assumption on your part.”

  “You sound like a Roman priest,” Asaf said.

  “And you sound like a heretic,” the Roman replied.

  “If you only knew, you son of a pig,” Asaf grumbled.

  Thaddeus put his hand on Asaf’s shoulder.

  “You sound like a Roman as well,” the priest said to Thaddeus, “although, you have the look of a Greek. And your friend … Norse I’d suggest. And your other friend, the one with the damnable tongue, he is surely Roman … at least, in some part.”

  “Peace, my friend,” Thaddeus said.

  “What is this about?” the Roman asked. “You are a long way from home.”

  Alden spoke to the Roman priest. They went back and forth for a few moments. Alden was a hearthguard, with his well-crafted sword and his shirt of mail, but he was a young one, desperately in need of a bath. But as he spoke to this Roman priest, he seemed to command a great deal of respect. When he was done, the Roman looked at Thaddeus.

  “Follow me,” the Roman priest said. “I will take you to Harold Godwinson.”

  “Did he say Harold Godwinson?” Gunnar asked. “As in, King Harold Godwinson?”

  Thaddeus just shrugged.

  “Is it his ghost, then?” Gunnar asked.

  “A son?” Asaf asked.

  The Roman priest said nothing as they followed him. Even the Normans knew their conquest had dispersed the late King Harold’s family. Many of them fled to Ireland, but his younger son, birthed by Harold’s second wife and carrying the same namesake as his father, had fled to Norway, a welcomed guest of the Norwegian nobility along with his mother. Many suggested he was born after King Harold’s death, so it could have been possible he had returned to England in hopes of avenging his father and retaking the English crown for family Godwin.

  “Maybe a grandson,” Thaddeus added.

  “Silence,” the Roman priest said, and they obeyed.

  Chapter 6

  A LARGE TAPESTRY of the Virgin Mary holding the infant Christ child hung from the ceiling to the floor in the north transept of the church. The Roman priest crossed himself and then pulled the tapestry aside, revealing a heavy, wooden door. He produced a key from within his robes, unlocked the door, and opened it.

  “Lock it behind us,” the Roman priest said.

  Thaddeus turned to see another man following them—large and tall with a sleeveless mail shirt and a shaved head. He nodded. The Roman then led the men to the sacristy, knocking twice on another door made of heavy oak and then opening it. The space beyond the door was dark, but the Roman entered anyway.

  “Pax vobiscum,” the Roman priest said.

  “Pax in Cristo,” a voice from within the darkness replied.

  A tinderbox was used to light a single candle, revealing a man with most of his face covered by a mail coif and a conical nasal helm. Alden said something to Gunnar as Thaddeus gripped his sword’s handle.

  “It will be all right,” Gunnar translated. “He asks us to trust him as he has trusted us.”

  With the priest carrying the candle, they walked only a few more paces when they came to another door guarded by two more men. They opened the door, bowing to the Roman priest, revealing a well-lit room centered by a large, round table. Thaddeus didn’t notice much about the room, only the three men sitting at the round table. One had the look of a Greek and two of Anglo-Saxons.

  Alden stepped forward and bowed before one of the Anglo-Saxons.

  “Min Cyning,” Alden said.

  He looked strong, perhaps in his early middle years. His bright hair was cut just above his shoulders and had a noble bob to it, and two drooping mustachios lay to either side of his mouth. As he bowed to Alden, he smiled and rubbed his chin, the scratchy sound revealing he hadn’t shaved in some days. He wore a red robe draped over his strong shoulders, clasped together by a fist-sized ruby.

  “It is Harold Godwinson,” Gunnar said in disbelief.

  “By the rood,” Asaf cursed, “I thought he was dead.”

  “I am not King Harold,” the robed man said in Latin, “at least, not yet.”

  “Your Grace,” Thaddeus said, bowing quickly. “I don’t understand.”

  “I am his grandson,” the man said. “I am the son of Godwin Haroldson, son of Harold Godwinson. The good people of Chesterfield have taken me in and kept me hidden until we can once again rise up and overthrow the tyranny of the Normans.”

  “We are not revolutionaries,” Asaf said, his tone harsh and angry. “We are holy warriors.”

  “Is this why you brought us here, Alden?” Asaf asked. “To be a part of some damned revolution?”

  “Indeed damned,” the Roman priest hissed, “Watch your tongue, especially in the house of our Lord.”

  “Piss on this,” Asaf said. “Alden lied to us. You want us to help lead a damned revolution against the Normans!”

  “You will shut your mouth,” the Roman priest said.

  “Your reputation is renowned,” Harold Godwinson said, and his smile defused the tension.

  “Is it?” Asaf asked, more quietly.

  “And we know you do the Lord’s work,” Harold added. “Our very own Bishop Wulfstan has attested to that.”

  Harold presented the other Saxon man, a white-haired man, skin wrinkled and sagging, but he looked to have been broad-shouldered at one time. He was the last, living bishop from the people of Britannia, ordained by Pope Alexander II. William the Bastard, the first Norman king of England, realized Wulfstan treated his diocese well, and his parishioners were generally obedient because of his leadership and kept him in his position as the highest officer of the English churches.

  Thaddeus didn’t say anything. He nodded quickly to the bishop, who nodded back and simply listened.

  “Taking back our lands is God’s work,” Harold said, “this much I know.”

  “And you think God cares which turd rules a country?” Asaf asked.

  “The Normans conquered Christian men,” Harold said, refusing to rise to Asaf’s bait, “and are committing atrocities to our people. Poor crops, torture and mass executions, the tearing down of holy relics … it can only be the work of the Devil. And the Roman church is sympathetic to our cause. That is why Theodo is here.”

  Harold motioned towards the Roman priest with an open palm.

  “And the Eastern Church is sympathetic as well,” Harold added,
presenting the Greek. “This is Cyril. He is a Byzantine priest and has come to help advise us in our reclaiming of our lands.”

  Thaddeus noticed a look between the Roman and Byzantine priests. Having the two in the same room was an oddity in itself. Almost forty years prior, in the year of our Lord 1054, a great schism occurred between the western and eastern churches and ever since the Romans and Byzantines had been at odds. Not that they weren’t before, but when Pope Leo excommunicated the Patriarch, Michael Cerularius, and the Patriarch, in turn, excommunicated the Pope. A clear divide occurred between the two churches with tension rising to points of violence at times.

  Therefore, Thaddeus might have expected the look the two priests to give one another to be one of discord, even hatred, but the look they gave one another was one of worry and concealment. Something concerned them, but they were afraid to disclose it.

  “And what of Alden?” Thaddeus asked.

  “He is one of my housecarls,” Harold said, “loyal to House Godwin.”

  “How did he know to find us?” Thaddeus asked.

  “He didn’t,” Harold said again.

  There was that look again, this time given not only between the two priests but Bishop Wulfstan and Alden as well.

  “I sent him north, to speak with King Malcolm of Scotland to see if he might help us,” Harold explained. “Malcolm and my grandfather did not always see eye to eye, and the good Lord knows the Northumbrians and Scots have had their fill of fighting, but he harbored fleeing English when the Conqueror attacked, and the Normans’ have been hard on his people. We knew it might be a miracle, but we figured we might at least ask for Malcolm’s help. However, apparently Alden saw you three, and he thought you might be better tasked than Malcolm, at least for now.”

  “To overthrow a king?” Thaddeus questioned. “How are we better tasked at such a thing than a whole nation?”

  “Rather than raise an army,” Harold explained, “we will start with each shire. Richmond, known to us Saxons as Hindrelag, has been the greatest perpetrator of atrocities against the Saxon people. And, being in the north, we figure much easier to overthrow and control. Alan Rufus of Rennes was the Earl of Richmond, and he died just this year. His brother, Alan Niger is to take his place, but his other brother, Stephen, has assumed the position until his other brother reaches England from Brittany. Both Alans are dastardly men.”