“I am sorry, Thaddeus Christopoulos,” the bishop said, “but I do not have anything to give you that might help you on this journey. Only my blessing.”
“That is enough, Most Reverend Wulfstan,” Thaddeus replied, and with that, Wulfstan stood on unsteady legs, placed his hands on Thaddeus’s head, made the sign of the cross, and prayed.
†
Prince Harold was waiting for Thaddeus when the warrior stepped out of the church. Two men stood next to Harold, along with his normal retinue of guards.
“I have asked one of my thanes to go with you, Thaddeus,” Harold said. “This is Brant.”
A blond-haired man stepped forward, lean, and well-muscled. He looked a man of middle years and held himself as any aristocrat would, shoulders back, spine straight, and chin high. The Saxon thanes were the equivalent of the Norman knights, minor nobles and lords who controlled land, held title, and demanded a certain amount of respect from the peasantry and nobility alike. This Saxon knight, with his shirt of mail, his conical helm tucked under his left arm, and a long sword sheathed at his side, looked an adept warrior. He had seen battle, and recently by the looks of his shield which had chips along its edges.
“He has served me well,” the prince continued, “and is a good Christian man who can speak and read Latin. And this is his huscarl, Jarvis, a good man who has served my family well also.”
A younger man, also lean and well-muscled, a reddish, ruddy tint to his darker hair, bowed from behind Brant. He was tan skinned, which spoke to his time in the fields, even in the sunless world of Britannia. He reminded Thaddeus of the young men back home, in Peloponnesus. The Saxon huscarl was probably much like a Norman squire, with no hope of ever achieving a status beyond a personal soldier of a knight, even though most came from well-respected families. Jarvis would never truly own lands or carry a title. He might achieve great success and notoriety as a warrior, but he would always be the property of his thane, presently, this man Brant. Perhaps a generation ago, Jarvis would not have been a house guard. He didn’t look like he was of aristocratic birth and didn’t carry himself like Brant, but these times were desperate for the Anglo-Saxons.
“Jarvis can limp his way through a conversation in Latin,” Harold said, “although, I doubt you will be speaking to him much.”
“I can help with his Latin education,” Thaddeus said, “if it pleases Brant.”
The thane just gave Thaddeus a haughty look over his long nose and rolled his eyes.
“I am sure that will be well received,” Harold said. “I wish I could lend you more, although Thane Brant is as capable as a dozen men. You can imagine we have few men to spare.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Thaddeus said. “Brant will do. He looks like a fine warrior.”
After the prince stepped to one side to speak directly to his guards, Thaddeus bowed to the thane, but the nobleman didn’t reply in kind.
“When shall we leave?” Thaddeus asked.
“I would like to leave in the morning,” Brant said. “I have some things I need to attend to before we depart. The journey to and from Hindrelag may take several weeks, and I have to ensure my household will run smoothly in my absence.”
“Your wife and children?” Thaddeus asked with a smile.
“I have never found a woman I can stand for any length of time,” Brant replied, mouth flat and eyes nonchalantly staring at something else, “and I don’t have any children … at least that I know of.”
“So be it,” Thaddeus replied. “Come, let me introduce you to my companions, the men you will be traveling with.”
“I will meet them soon enough,” Brant replied. “I am a busy man and—”
Shouting cut the thane off. Jarvis moved in front of the thane, sword drawn, but Brant pushed the huscarl out of the way.
“I can’t see, you fool,” Brant hissed. “You think I am afraid of a few brawling peasants?”
Thaddeus watched as several men engaged in a scuffle, right in the middle of the village’s market. The two men attracted others to the fight, and tensions ran high until there was a full-on brawl. Within moments, a bell rang from somewhere behind Thaddeus, and he saw armed men—the local militia—rushing to the fight, yelling and pulling people away. It didn’t seem anyone was hurt badly; some bloody noses, cut brows, and one man cradled his arm.
“What was that about?” Thaddeus asked no one in particular.
“Mercian and Northumbrian dogs,” Brant said with a sneer. “They’re always causing trouble.”
“They have trouble getting along?” Thaddeus asked.
“Can a dog ever really be more than a dog?” Brant asked in reply. “You can feed it, bathe it, treat it as a member of your family even, but the minute it snaps at you, you must kill it. It will never truly be a man.”
“And that is how you feel about both the Northumbrians and the Mercians?” Thaddeus asked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the prince was now listening to their conversation.
“All of them,” Brant replied, looking over his nose with an air of condescension. “The Anglicans and the Essexers too; Harold thought he could unify them. Even though he, just as I, hailed from the noble kingdom of Wessex, how do you unify animals? That is what did him in. We could have defeated the Normans if it wasn’t for them. By Christ’s Blood, we could have deterred the Norman invasion if he had shown some balls, culled the animals of this country, and ruled as a king should. It is what will be William Rufus’ downfall. He allows too much leniency.”
“Do many Wessexers feel the way you do?” Thaddeus asked, wondering if Brant felt the same way about him and his companions.
“If they do not, then they are not truly Wessexers,” Brant replied. The Saxon knight grunted and scowled as the militia carted several men away. “Tomorrow just after sunrise?”
“Yes,” Thaddeus said with a smile and a bow.
This time, Brant returned the favor and walked away, Jarvis, his huscarl, close on his heels. Thaddeus was about to return to the barn when the prince appeared at his side.
“A quick word,” Harold said as Brant and Jarvis walked away through the town square, daring people to get in their way.
“Of course, Your Highness,” Thaddeus replied.
“Brant is a strong warrior, and loyal and sympathetic to our cause,” Harold explained, “and he is a proud Wessexer.”
“I can see that,” Thaddeus said.
“He will prove an invaluable ally on this journey,” Harold said. “He is the best I can offer you as a man in a fight, but he is a bigot. He believes we Wessexers are immensely superior to the other Anglo-Saxons here in England. He has been, at times, rather harsh with other Saxons, especially Mercians. Extend him a bit of grace on your travels.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” Thaddeus said as he bowed.
Thaddeus walked past the humble home behind which stood the barn, nodding and smiling at the half dozen children playing in the front, chasing after a chicken and slinging mud pies at one another. They scattered when their mother appeared in the doorway, scolding them loudly. When she saw Thaddeus, she curtseyed, and Thaddeus bowed. Harold Godwinson had offered this home to Thaddeus and his companions as long as they stayed, but they had already spoken to a farmer and agreed to camp behind his simple house. With eight children to feed, both the husband and wife were grateful for the gesture and a little extra money.
“What is that look for?” Gunnar asked as Thaddeus walked into the barn, watching carefully to avoid stepping in pig shit.
“Sorry,” Thaddeus replied. He hadn’t realized he was frowning as he thought of the brawl in the town center. “I was just thinking about a fight that broke out in the market square, and something Brant said to me.”
“Who is Brant?” Asaf asked.
“A thane to Prince Harold,” Thaddeus replied, noticing that Alden had joined the other two. “He will be traveling with us to Richmond.”
“A thane!” Asaf exclaimed. “Does he have a stick up his as
s like most aristocrats?”
“That he does,” Thaddeus said, reluctantly.
“And what did this thane have to say?” Asaf asked.
“The fight that broke out,” Thaddeus said, “was between some Mercians and Northumbrians.”
“So?” Gunnar said.
“Brant called them dogs,” Thaddeus said. “He said they were animals. It reminded me of the Romans.”
“There are many people who remind me of the Romans,” Asaf said with a scowl.
The mention of Mercians and Northumbrians caused Alden to perk up.
“I fear this land needs the Normans,” Thaddeus said.
“What do you mean by that?” Asaf asked. “It has had them for almost thirty years already.”
“I fear this land remains in need of someone who can unify it,” Thaddeus expounded. “It is fractured. It always has been. The Normans can unify it, but they need time. And support.”
“Unify it through what?” Asaf exclaimed. “Rape. Murder. By allying themselves with a heinous witch?”
“Conquest is always painful,” Thaddeus said, “and I am not justifying the horrors of war. But the Normans are, at the heart of it, good, Christian men.”
“Good Christian men who are allying themselves with a servant of the Devil,” Asaf said, “and heralding back to their heathen, Norse ways.”
“You little shit,” Gunnar said, making for Asaf.
Alden moved behind Gunnar, seemingly to back him up.
“Easy,” Thaddeus said, putting a hand in the middle of Gunnar’s chest. “Asaf, you forget yourself and your place. It is clear this witch has poisoned her way into the graces of this Count Stephen and his family like the snake she is. You cannot fault a man who has been unwittingly charmed by the enemy.”
“Can I not?” Asaf said, turning around and walking to a sitting spot. “Am I not faulted for the sins I have committed?”
“We all are,” Thaddeus said. “You know that. And there will certainly be repercussions for this Count Stephen and his brother Alan Niger upon his return from Brittany. But being influenced by the Devil does not mean they are not good men.”
“As you say,” Asaf said noncommittally, but seemingly appeased as he plopped onto the ground and uncorked a waterskin full of spiced wine.
“Ever since I have known this land,” Thaddeus said, “it has been wild and fragmented. The Normans may be exactly what it continues to need.”
†
Thaddeus gave the farmer’s wife a bag of smaller denomination coin he had exchanged for a gold one with the bishop. It was enough to make the family relatively wealthy in this land, and the woman would have carried on kissing Thaddeus’s hand if he had not pulled it away quite forcible.
They met Brant and his huscarl, Jarvis, in the center of Chesterfield. The thane met the warriors with the same look of haughtiness and air of superiority as he had the day before. When he saw Alden with them, his lip curled.
“Must you bring this dog with us?” Brant asked.
“Do you know one another?” Thaddeus said, a sarcastic smile growing on his face. “He is a member of the hearthguard and huscarl to Harold.”
“Yes, I know him,” the thane replied.
“You are not friends, then?” Thaddeus asked. “Acquaintances at least?”
Brant shot Thaddeus a hard look with pursed lips and squinted eyes.
“We are not friends,” Brant said. “I am a thane, and he is nothing but a huscarl … and lucky to be that.”
“Well,” Thaddeus replied. “He is our friend and, from now on, you will refer to him as Alden and not a dog.”
“Just because I do not refer to pig shit as pig shit does not make it anything but that,” Brant said, and before Thaddeus could reply, turned to his horse, mounted, and spurred his mount, not waiting for anyone else.
“That went well,” Gunnar said.
Thaddeus shrugged as they followed Brant out of Chesterfield and back into the open country. They headed north, towards the Borough of Richmond, some one hundred Roman miles away. Asaf rode up next to Thaddeus.
“Do you think he speaks Greek?” Asaf asked Thaddeus, speaking in Greek.
“No,” Thaddeus replied in the same language. “He probably thinks it’s beneath him.”
“Good,” Asaf said. “Be wary of this thane.”
Thaddeus gave his friend a questioning look.
“He is a pompous ass, that’s for sure,” Thaddeus said.
“It’s more than that. There is something about him,” Asaf said. “I think he might be more trouble than he is worth.”
“Why?” Thaddeus asked.
“Just be alert,” Asaf said. “Keep a watchful eye on him.”
Chapter 9
“DAMN THIS WEATHER,” Asaf said.
“Cursing will not make the weather change,” Gunnar said. “It has been this way for many years before us. It will be this way for many years after us.”
“What does that mean?” Asaf asked.
“It means stop your belly-aching,” Gunnar replied. “It doesn’t do anyone any good to complain about the weather.”
“What do you know you heathen churl,” Asaf said.
“Heathen? I’ll—”
“Oh stop it both you, you’re like a couple of old maids,” interrupted Thaddeus before he again wiped the rain from his face. It was coming down as a light drizzle but had been doing so for almost 24 hours. His eyes watched the flames of their campfire and he grabbed a wet twig and flicked it into the struggling fire, watching the flame sputter and smoke as the water in the wood sizzled.
Asaf still grumbled, but under his breath as he obeyed Thaddeus’ command.
The weather of Britannia was often cloudy and wet, with mild temperatures in the spring and summer and cold temperatures in the autumn and winter. It was certainly wetter, cloudier, and colder than Rome or Greece. But as they rode north, towards Yorkshire, Richmond, and Richmond Castle, the weather had worsened. The rain picked up, the air cooled, and the days shortened. In these lands, in the north, the days just seemed gray, and void of any color. There were no flowers, despite the springtime. Wildlife had vanished. Birds didn’t sing. Everything just looked … sad. It was a fact Thaddeus couldn’t ignore.
“Damned witch,” Thaddeus mumbled.
“What?” Brant asked.
“This weather,” Thaddeus said. “That’s all. It’s just wretched.”
“This is how the lands of dogs is,” Brant said. “Dark and dreary and wet, barbaric and, yet, boring. Hey, Mercian?”
As Brant used the word barbaric, Thaddeus thought he was just like the ancient Romans and Greeks. Alden paid the thane no attention, so Brant threw a branch at him.
“You should speak up when a man greater than you asks a question,” Brant said, laughing. “This land must be much like your mother. Boring, but always wet … wanting no men to settle there … all the time.”
Thaddeus looked quickly to Alden, who clenched his fists and looked ready to leap to his feet.
“That’s enough,” Thaddeus said.
“He doesn’t even understand what I am saying,” Brant said, presenting the Saxon with an open hand as if he were some spectacle. “The uneducated animal that he is.”
“I understand, you arrogant prick,” Alden said, standing.
Brant’s mouth dropped, and his eyes widened, but then narrowed again. Thaddeus motioned for Alden to sit down again.
“He is a quick learner,” Thaddeus said with a smile, thinking Alden knew more Latin than Wulfstan let on.
“Teach a dog manners,” Brant said, a frown crossing his face, “and he is still a dog.”
Thaddeus watched as Jarvis waited on Brant. He poured the thane spiced wine, but the Brant spat it out and threw the cup on the ground. Thaddeus had started to learn the Anglo-Saxon language, but as Brant scolded his personal soldier, he couldn’t make out what he was saying.
“He is upset the wine is cold,” Gunnar said. He must’ve seen Thaddeus
watching the pair. “And it isn’t sweet enough.”
“Everything out here is cold,” Thaddeus replied. “Even our fire is cold.”
Gunnar just shrugged.
Brant kept nagging his huscarl as Jarvis tried to roast a chicken on the sputtering fire. When that didn’t work, the thane kicked his soldier and took the man’s dried crackers and dried meat instead, seemingly complaining about it the whole time he ate it. Jarvis finally sat, dejected and hungry.
“Rothres eow aetrihte!” Brant said to Alden, his voice elevated.
Thaddeus looked to Gunnar.
“He asked Alden what he was looking at,” Gunnar explained.
“Locian me, eower hund,” Brant said, standing, hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
“He called him a dog,” Gunnar explained.
Thaddeus stood.
“Enough,” he said, but Brant just looked at Thaddeus over his nose nonchalantly.
The thane turned back to Alden, pointing his finger at the Mercian and speaking harshly.
“I said …” Thaddeus said.
“I don’t care what you said,” Brant said in Latin. “You are not my lord. If anything, I should be your liege lord, and you should be following me.”
“I think not,” Asaf said.
Brant scoffed.
“We will see,” Brant said, sitting, kicking Jarvis, and cursing at his huscarl.
The rain had stopped when Thaddeus awoke. He saw their fire had died to several glowing embers, and he could feel the bite of the cold night on his nose. But it wasn’t the cold that had woken him. It was noise, scuffling, cursing. Thaddeus sat up quickly. Brant and Alden were gone.
“Gunnar. Asaf.”
His companions didn’t stir, but then he caught a silhouette standing at the edge of their camp. Thaddeus jumped to his feet and saw it was Jarvis, standing with his back to the glowing embers once their campfire. Thaddeus grabbed his sword and walked over next to Jarvis.
Jarvis spoke very little Latin, and Thaddeus had yet to grasp the language of the Angles, so he didn’t ask what the man was doing, but when he reached the thane’s personal soldier, he quickly saw what it was. Thaddeus saw, by the dim, English moonlight two men struggling with one another—Alden and Brant. Brant had rolled on top of Alden, straddled the man’s hips—pinning him to the ground—and began punching Alden in the face and chest and shoulders. Alden flailed about, trying to block some of the strikes and doing a decent job of at least deflecting the blows. Brant finally wrapped his hands around Alden’s neck, and Thaddeus could here quick gasps of air as Alden turned to clawing at the thane’s arms.
To Kill a Witch Page 7