Brant had overpowered Alden, meaning he was a proven warrior, for Thaddeus had seen Alden fight and the man was an adept fighter. Brant was not just all talk. Thaddeus would truly have to be careful of the man.
Thaddeus’s hand went to his sword. He drew it and stepped forward. A hand shot out and pushed back against Thaddeus’s chest. It was Jarvis. The man shook his head.
“Ne,” Jarvis said.
Thaddeus understood his word for no. He shook his head and said, “Yise.”
Thaddeus grabbed Jarvis hand and removed it from his chest. The huscarl looked as if he would put up a fight, but then relented, seemingly not having the heart to challenge Thaddeus.
Thaddeus stepped forward, put a firm hand on the top of Brant’s mail shirt, and pulled him off Alden. The thane, now sprawled out on the ground, looked up at Thaddeus. Even in the dim moonlight, Thaddeus could see the hatred in the man’s eyes. Then, from a sidelong glance, he saw Alden get up and make for the thane. Thaddeus put a hand on Alden’s chest and shook his head.
“Who do you think you are?” Brant said, standing and brushing the mud from his clothes. “Don’t you ever put your hands on me again.”
“Or what?” Thaddeus said, stepping nose to nose with the thane. So close, he could see a growing welt just under the thane’s left eye, blood around his nose, and some discoloration along his forehead. “What will you do, Brant? You have no idea who I am, not that you care. You think you are better than me—than all of us—because you are a part of some lost nobility. You may think you are a better fighter, but do not cross me, thane.”
Brant gave a condescending sneer. He grabbed Thaddeus’s arm and gave it a quick squeeze.
“You think your muscles and your tanned skin and your dark beard and your rugged looks scare me?” Brant said. “You might scare the simple people of this country—men like that Mercian dog of yours—but you don’t scare me. Norsemen and Moors are much bigger than you, and I have killed plenty of them—dumb, brutish, barbaric animals.”
“I pity you,” Thaddeus said with an insincere smile. “You think you can read a man simply by the way he looks.”
Brant laughed and then said something to Jarvis. The huscarl bowed quickly and rushed to pick up the thane’s sword.
“Watch yourself,” Brant said, leaning in even closer to Thaddeus. He could smell spiced wine and salted meat on the man’s breath.
“I always do,” Thaddeus replied with a smile. This time it was genuine.
Brant again said something harshly to Jarvis and then jerked his head towards the dying campfire. Thaddeus hadn’t realized it, but Gunnar and Asaf now stood at the edge of the camp and watched them, Gunnar with his spear in hand and Asaf with his short sword. Brant paid them almost no mind, even making a point to pass in between them, bumping them both with his shoulders.
“What an arrogant rat turd,” Thaddeus said. He turned to Alden. “What happened?”
“He kicked my boot,” Alden replied with his best Latin. “Spat on my face. Called me dog. I am tired of it.”
“I don’t blame you,” Thaddeus replied. “You must be careful, though.”
With one eye already closing with swelling, Alden looked at Thaddeus with confusion. Thaddeus repeated himself, slower, and Alden nodded.
“He is a thane,” Thaddeus added. “He is a good fighter and knows how to use a sword.”
“As do I,” Alden said.
“Yes, I gathered as much,” Thaddeus replied, “but I think he knows how to use one better.”
Alden laughed as he wiped blood from his mouth.
“You teach me,” he said. Then he put his index finger in the middle of Thaddeus’ chest. “You’ll help me get better.”
Thaddeus looked to Gunnar and Asaf. They just stared back, both shrugging their shoulders.
“Yes, I suppose so,” Thaddeus replied. “I will train you.”
Alden bowed, grasping Thaddeus’s hand and shaking it firmly.
Chapter 10
THE DAY AFTER the fight between Brant and Alden was worse than the one before. The rain had intensified, the clouds had darkened, and the temperature grew colder. Thaddeus found a large elm they could rest under, its large, tall branches shielding them from some of the rain. Brant had stormed off, though, when he complained about sharing the space with the horses.
“They are damned horses!” Brant had yelled.
“And carry us to where we need to go,” Thaddeus had replied. “Would we not want to take care of them as we would any family member?”
“Where do you think he went?” Gunnar asked.
“I don’t really care,” Thaddeus replied.
“His poor house soldier,” Gunnar said.
“It is his choice,” Alden said, and he was correct.
Thaddeus knew in some cultures, like the Normans, most servants like Jarvis, whether they were a squire or house servant, had little choice in their station. But the Saxons viewed their service differently. Jarvis could have left. He might lose some face and credibility, he would certainly have to return his long sword and helm and mail shirt, but it might be worth it to avoid the verbal and physical abuse of Brant.
“Do we have to continue to put up with him?” Asaf asked.
“Unfortunately, I think we do,” Thaddeus replied. “He is Harold’s man.”
Thaddeus then looked to Alden.
“And then there is our Mercian friend,” Thaddeus said. “How is it you serve Harold in pretense, but he believes you are truly his man?”
“My grandfather served Earl Godwin and then King Harold,” Alden explained through Gunnar. “War had forced my family south, to East Anglia, and despite my grandfather’s Mercian blood, Earl Godwin was good to him, as was King Harold. My father was just a boy when my grandfather died, and Harold agreed to bring my father into his house.”
“Harold Godwinson truly sounds like he was a good man,” Thaddeus said.
“It depends on whom you ask,” Alden said, Gunnar still translating for him. “He treated my family well, as did his son Godwin, after his death at Hastings. And many would say if he had lived and defeated William the Conqueror, he would have been a good king. But the Confessor killed many who were not Wessexers in order to unify England, and Harold supported him. They were especially ruthless to the Danes, as they had much of Edward the Confessor’s family assassinated.”
“And this is how you became a house soldier to Harold?” Asaf asked.
“Godwin Haroldson took my father and mother with him to Ireland,” Alden explained. “It is where I was born. My father died when Godwin attempted to retake England, attacking Brian of Brittany, who is actually elder brother to Count Stephen and Alan Niger of Richmond Castle. My mother died the next year, leaving me, just an infant, with Harold and Godwin’s widow. In a way, Harold’s mother raised me, or at least her household did, and when they secretly returned to England some years later, I was rewarded with the title of huscarl and hearthguard. It was the most I could ever expect, either under Norman or Saxon rule.”
“How is it you now truly serve Bishop Wulfstan?” Thaddeus asked.
“He saw me when I was a boy,” Gunnar translated, “and it was then he started giving me menial tasks to complete for him. Take this letter to this man. Feed the church’s horses. Eventually, I grew to trust him. When I became a man, he offered me a position as a warrior for the church. He said I would be doing God a great service. And I could still serve Harold as well. How do you turn that offer down? He educated me. Had warriors train me. It has been my honor.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Thaddeus asked.
Alden shook his head.
“In a way, Harold is my only family,” he replied, “and I am grateful for his companionship.”
“You are a good man, Alden,” Thaddeus said.
†
It took them six days to reach Richmond. The journey was relatively quiet, although Thaddeus could feel the tension continuing to rise between Brant and Ald
en. It rained all but one day and, on that one clear and somewhat dry day, it was so cold, Thaddeus did nothing but wish for his homeland of Laconia, where the sun kissed the land every day. He could almost feel the warmth, and when he closed his eyes, hear the gentle crashing of waves against the Spartan shores.
“This land is truly dead,” Asaf said as they rode past several other castle, all motte and bailey constructions, overseeing manors and a few towns like Chesterfield.
“Castle Tickhill, Conisbrough, and Pontefract are all gifts from William the Conqueror,” Brant explained, breaking his almost weeklong silence. “William lavished those who supported him, some Normans who invaded with the Duke and some Saxons and Britons who supported his invasion, with lands and titles and, of course, castles. The many gifted castles here in the north are further proof these people are animals with no loyalty.”
“Or they were tired of ruthless Wessexer rule,” Thaddeus added, to which Brant gave him a hard look with furled eyebrows.
Brant waved off the chiding Thaddeus.
“Our king,” Brant spat the word, “seems to think by making Saxons and Britons lords, and letting their local chieftains have some semblance of jurisdiction, it will make them more subservient. Look what good that has done.”
Thaddeus just shook his head. Evil, the Devil and his witch, poisoned this land. It had nothing to do with King William or Prince Harold or Normans or Saxons. A man possessed and influenced by the evil one was not himself. He was a shell of who he was.
It was hard to be subservient when a witch was poisoning the lords’ minds and you were being tortured every day.
Despite the infertility of the land, people still worked it, digging at nothing, slowly and methodically, like possessed shells of humans. An overseer watched here and there, but mostly, the Saxon people who served as serfs on these manors just dug and planted seed that would never grow.
“No different than the Romans and their slaves,” Asaf said, spitting as they rode along a decently maintained road butting against the fields of one such manor.
“We are all slaves,” Thaddeus said, “in some way or another.”
Thaddeus could see the curtain wall of Castle Richmond from far away, at least half a day’s ride. The walls were stone, a rarity in most places.
“William the Conqueror must have been worried about invasion this far north,” Thaddeus said, “to put so much money into the castle.”
“It was the design of Alan Rufus,” Brant explained, “reflecting that the people in these lands are animals and were always causing trouble. He calls his lands in the north the Honor of Richmond.”
“Oh, you mean the conquered didn’t like being conquered?” Asaf asked.
Brant ignored him.
“He was a kinsman to the Duke of Normandy, and his family is still extremely wealthy,” Brant said. “Richmond Castle is more of a spectacle than Winchester Castle, where William Rufus has established his court and capital.”
The castle itself sat along the shores of a river, one Brant and Jarvis called the River Swale.
“This reminds me of the Peloponnesus,” Thaddeus said.
“Truly?” Asaf asked. “With all this rain and cold?”
“Well, not that,” Thaddeus replied with a smile, “but the water, and the green grass around the river, in a way, reminds me of home.”
Thaddeus knew Yorkshire, the shire in which Richmond resided and parts of the former Kingdom of Northumbria were densely populated, but that term in northern Europe meant something very different than other parts of the world. Half a million people called the city of Rome home at one point, and almost as many called Constantinople home, but since the fall of the Western Empire, much of Europe found itself in disarray and a town of a hundred people with naught but a market, a church, a blacksmith, and a few roads might be considered a metropolis.
Walls surrounded Richmond, the city supporting Castle Richmond. Again, and unlike many of the walls around other cities in Northern Europe, these too were made mostly of stone. Thaddeus suspected they were the remnants of an old Roman fort, as so many of the other, standing walls in England were.
“Ten thousand people,” Brant said, “maybe more.”
Where old Roman stone couldn’t be used, a wooden gatehouse jutted forward from the southern wall, open and well-guarded by Norman soldiers.
“Is Richmond well trafficked?” Thaddeus asked.
“I suppose,” Brant replied with a shrug.
“That helps,” Asaf said, shooting the thane a dirty look.
“Even so, we don’t look like Normans,” Thaddeus said.
“Thank the Lord for that,” Brant added.
“So, Saxons and foreigners walking into a large city with swords and mail shirts might look suspect, don’t you think?” Thaddeus asked. “We should put together a plan.”
“What sort of plan do you have in mind?” Asaf asked.
“Brant, do you speak the language of the Normans?” Thaddeus asked.
“By Christ’s Blood!” Brant exclaimed angrily. “No, I most certainly do not!”
“Figures,” Gunnar said in Greek.
“We will speak the language of the Saxons,” Thaddeus said.
“English,” Brant said.
“Fine,” Thaddeus relented. “We will speak English, and those of us who do understand Frankish will pretend not to, except for Asaf.”
“For what reason?” Asaf asked.
“You will be a monk, visiting the local abbey,” Thaddeus said, looking to Brant.
“The name is Easby Abbey,” Alden said when Brant shrugged his shoulders.
“And where are we from?” Asaf asked, and Alden whispered to Gunnar.
“He suggests Saint Augustine’s Abbey is near Canterbury,” Gunnar explained. “No one here would recognize one of their monks.”
“And the Augustinians travel quite a bit,” Thaddeus mused, rubbing his chin. “It is a good plan.”
“Is it?” Asaf asked, looking rather irritated. “And who will you pretend to be?”
“Your escort and guard,” Thaddeus said.
“A Norman monk would have Saxons?” Asaf asked, his brows furled.
“It is the best plan,” Thaddeus said.
“This is a stupid plan,” Brant said.
“This is probably the only time I will agree with this man,” Asaf said.
“Nonetheless, it is the plan,” Thaddeus said. “God willing, it will work. Hide your mail shirts under your shirts and coats and your helms in your saddlebags. We can argue the spear and long swords are needed for protection in these troubled times.”
They stopped by a farmhouse a half mile from the gate. It seemed many of the city’s people lived outside the protective walls, but not ten thousand, so many of them certainly crowded the city as well. They changed behind the house, putting on extra shirts and extra thick coats to hide their armor. They dirtied their swords as if to suggest they were not cared for.
“I don’t like this,” Brant said as they walked towards the city gates, leading their horses.
“There is no other way,” Thaddeus said. “Once we get past the gatehouse, we will easily blend into a city of ten thousand people. We can drop the guise, and you can go back to being your old miserable self.”
“Business?” one of the guards asked in Frankish as they approached the gate. As Asaf responded, Thaddeus looked to Brant, over his shoulder. The thane didn’t know what they were saying and, as the moments went on, he looked nervous.
Please, Lord, close his mouth, if just for these few, short moments.
“We are on a pilgrimage, my son,” Asaf said, making the sign of the cross in front of him.
“A pilgrimage?” the guard asked. “To where?”
“All across this blessed land,” Asaf replied.
“Blessed land,” another guard chided, and all the men standing there laughed.
“You must truly be a godly man to find this land blessed,” the first guard said. “It is anyth
ing but. And its people are backward, and we’re so close to the Scots.”
“Jocks,” one man said, to which the whole lot of them laughed.
“I think I preferred Rufus’ harsher rule of the locals,” another guard said. “Keep these people in check. Show them who’s the real boss.”
“Hush,” another guard said. “Don’t speak of the dead count in such a way. Some say he died on unnatural causes.”
Asaf looked at Thaddeus over his shoulder, who in turn looked to Gunnar. And then to Brant, who shifted uneasily and began to sweat.
“Shut your trap,” the first guard said. “Count Stephen commands, and we obey. That’s all. We’re not paid to have an opinion.”
He turned to Asaf.
“Seems odd for a monk to be all the way up here, in Yorkshire, blessing people and taking Saxon peasants on a pilgrimage. And why the weapons?”
“I have been tasked with spreading the Good Word and blessing people in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,” Asaf replied, “And I have been caught out and robbed in the past, and there are many unfriendly people out there.”
He waved a hand loosely in the direction of the open countryside and then made the sign of the cross again. Thaddeus couldn’t help smiling inwardly as the defrocked priest played his part well. Outwardly, he looked bored and tired.
“We only wish to stay in Easby Abbey for a few days,” Asaf continued, “and meet and pray with the abbot.”
The guard looked over the group one last time, looked back at one of the other guards, and then nodded.
To Kill a Witch Page 8