“Very well,” he said. “We’ll escort you to the abbey.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Asaf replied. “You are far too busy. We will be fine. Besides, what could happen to us in this city?”
“Clearly, you haven’t been here before,” the guard replied, “at least, not recently. Those swords might be useful.”
Then he shrugged.
“Suit yourself,” the guard said, “but say a few prayers before you go walking about. Most of the animals within these walls don’t care what kind of robes you’re wearing.”
“What were you talking about?” Brant asked coldly as they moved away towards the city.
“Just making small talk,” Asaf replied. “Trying to blend in.”
“It seems you did a good job of blending in,” Brant said. “Perhaps, too good of a job.”
“You suspect me of working for the Normans?” Asaf said with a small laugh.
“You speak their language,” Brant said as they led their horses through the darkening streets of Richmond.
“Christ’s Bones! I speak many languages,” Asaf replied, a frown replacing his smile. “Am I also working for the Italians, and the Swedes, and the Gauls? What are you worried about, Brant? Are you ever at ease with the world?”
“You know so many languages,” Brant said, “and have been so many places. It’s a wonder one such as yourself could hold any allegiances.”
Asaf turned hard on the thane, his face only inches away from the Wessexer’s. Thaddeus was glad the sun was fading. Many would have found it odd, a monk reeling around to face a follower, looking as if they were going to fight.
“Is it so odd I’ve been all around this world and can speak so many languages?” Asaf asked no one in particular.
“Nah,” Gunnar replied nonchalantly.
“Certainly not,” Thaddeus replied.
“Are we all working for the Normans?” Asaf asked.
Brant stepped back.
“Of what are you trying to accuse me?” Asaf asked.
“Just watch yourself,” Brant said.
“I think it is you who should heed his own warnings,” Asaf replied.
“Enough,” Thaddeus said. “We need to get out of the streets, lest we attract unwanted attention.”
“Do you truly mean to go to Easby Abbey?” Asaf asked.
“No,” Thaddeus replied. “Not even the most foolish of abbots would believe you are some Augustinian monk on a pilgrimage.”
“But those soldiers did,” Alden said.
“Exactly,” Thaddeus said. “Common soldiers. They know nothing of the happenings of the cloth. The local abbot would easily spot our ruse and be unhappy about the weapons.”
“Where to, then?” Gunnar asked.
“There is a … a suitable alehouse and inn in Richmond,” Alden said slowly.
“Of course, the Mercian would know where to drink and whore,” Brant said.
“Oh, do shut up for once,” Gunnar said.
“There are no whores in that place,” Alden said. “The name is The Priest’s Inn because it is where religious person lodge as well as other traveler person. It is in the … the southeast part of the city. Many houses there.”
“To The Priest’s Inn then,” Thaddeus said, still impressed by Alden’s not quite perfect Latin. He clearly understood it better than he spoke it.
“Do you smell her?” Asaf whispered in Greek.
“I do,” Thaddeus replied. “She is truly powerful for her scent to be so rank in such a big city. Be prepared.”
Asaf crossed himself again as they made their way towards the inn. This time it was not part of an act.
Chapter 11
THE WITCH’S POWER and presence had already corrupted this city, and the presence of evil left an acrid taste in Thaddeus’ mouth. For a trained warrior, such as he and his companions, it was a sensation felt after every battle, but there was a time when he could go into the forests or the deserts or the mountains of the world and be free of that most unwelcome sense, but as of late, it seemed he could never get away from it. The sensation he felt there was strong, a scent which almost made him gag, making their mission all the more urgent. He felt gooseflesh rise on his arms, and he shuddered; it took a lot to make Thaddeus do that.
As they led their horses through the dark streets of Richmond, he could sense people whispering and eyeing them suspiciously through cracks in their shuttered windows. Hindrelag—Richmond—was supposed to be a thriving city with a castle made fully of stone, given to Alan the Red—brother of Count Stephen of Tréguier—by William the Conqueror himself. With its rich farmlands and the River Swale flowing through its lands, it was a wealthy place, but as beggars and homeless children crowded the streets, it looked more like a camp of refugees than a thriving Norman settlement. One beggar extended an almost skeletal hand, groaning as Thaddeus passed by.
“By Lord Jesus,” Brant said, putting an arm over his nose, “he stinks.”
“Put your arm down, Brant,” Thaddeus commanded, putting a hand on the beggar’s head and mumbling a prayer. “His stink is more than just filth.”
Thaddeus saw a flash of golden light in the beggar’s eyes. He went rigid, looked as if he might lunge at Thaddeus, and then collapsed in a heap of rags. After just a moment, he pushed himself up, weeping. Thaddeus knelt down and cupped the man’s face in his hands.
“Go home, brother,” Thaddeus said.
The beggar stood, still crying, nodded, and limped hurriedly down the street.
“What was that?” Brant asked.
“Just a man who needed some encouragement,” Thaddeus explained and then admonished himself. Releasing the beggar from the grips of evil could have given away their ruse as Saxon freedom fighters. But it was too late to worry about that now.
“Destitution and not trusting our Lord Jesus Christ can easily drive a man to the streets,” he added.
“What magic was that?” Brant asked as Jarvis, his servant, backed away.
“It’s not magic,” Thaddeus replied. “It’s simply caring about people and knowing how to talk to them.”
“Looked like magic to me,” Brant said.
His eyes were hate-filled, those of a man who loved very little and was suspicious of much. Thaddeus had seen those eyes before, over the years. He had seen them many times. Part of him felt pity for Brant and his bigoted, ignorant ways.
“Well, it’s not,” Thaddeus replied.
“I’ll say it again—” Brant began to say, his hand moving towards his long sword, but Gunnar’s grip cut him off, and he gurgled as the Norseman lifted the thane up on his tiptoes, his huge hand encircling Brant’s throat.
“I’ve had about enough of your mouth for one evening,” Gunnar said.
“Gunnar, let him go,” Thaddeus commanded, and his friend obliged.
Brant, falling to his knees for a moment, rubbed his neck. He looked over his shoulder at Jarvis and stood, glaring at the huscarl as if the man should have done something. His house soldier looked scared.
“You’ll pay for that,” Brant said, pointing an accusatory finger at Gunnar.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Gunnar replied in a tone that suggested Brant’s threat was of no consequence.
“Enough,” Thaddeus said. “We need to get off the street and to the alehouse, lest we raise suspicions.”
As they walked, Thaddeus couldn’t help wanting to pray for the people who filled the streets. He wanted to give every man and woman a loaf of bread, every child a quick blessing but knew it would attract too much unwanted attention and make Brant even more suspicious. As much as he was growing to dislike the man, he needed him, if for no other reason than to appease Prince Harold and Wulfstan.
“Look at them,” Gunnar said, staring at a little, blond-haired boy curled up in his mother’s lap. “We can’t leave them.”
“What would you have us do?” Brant asked. “Waste time and energy on street rats? Our mission is much more pressing.”
&n
bsp; Thaddeus could see the rage growing across the Norseman’s face. He had an affinity for children, and, despite his massive size, they seemed to love him back. They flocked to him, and Thaddeus had never seen a man who could calm a crying baby or cheer up a sad child as Gunnar could. But the thane was right.
“Another time, my friend,” Thaddeus said. “Finishing this mission will help these people more than a loaf of bread ever could.”
Brant spat at the feet of an old woman who was clearly blind.
“These people are worthless,” Brant muttered, “but, yes, ridding this land of the Normans will help them off the streets so they can take their stink elsewhere, back to the fields where they belong.”
Gunner nodded at Thaddeus while glaring angrily at Brant as they continued down the street. Thaddeus felt Brant watching him closely, but those weren’t the eyes causing gooseflesh to rise along his arms. They were being followed, and not by simple thieves or street thugs. Such a powerful witch would be able to feel their presence as much as they felt hers, and would have sent her minions to watch them, to spy on them, or even attack.
As they turned a corner, a scream pierced the quiet night. Most of the homes of Richmond were already dark, the three-story buildings looming over the streets like shadowy giants, but light came from the bottom story of the building he judged to be where the scream had come. As if to confirm his suspicions, another scream came from the open window. He ran towards the sound, his companions following.
Staring through the open window, Thaddeus saw a man lying in the corner of the home, unconscious with blood running from a mean wound on his forehead. A chair, one of its legs broken, lay toppled in front of the man, with others scattered about the place. In another corner, three little children—two girls and a little boy—huddled together, crying. Thaddeus saw two Norman soldiers.
A woman—the source of the scream—lay across a table, and one of the soldiers, his trousers around his ankles, thrust violently into her as he stood between her legs. The woman’s dress was torn, and the soldier dug his dirty fingers into her exposed breast as he licked her neck like a thirsty dog. She wept, but he covered her mouth with his other hand. The other soldier stood by them and watched, salivating as he waited his turn. Thaddeus drew his sword.
“I thought you said you didn’t want to draw attention to us,” Brant said, clearly unsympathetic to the family’s situation, but Thaddeus’ glare halted any further protests from the thane.
Thaddeus kicked open the front door, and the children looked up at him, startled, and the standing soldier turned, the lust draining from his expression as he took in the sudden disturbance. Before he could say anything, the Norman’s eyes went wide when Thaddeus slashed his sword across the man’s chest, breaking links in his mail hauberk. He went to his knees, clutching at the wound, and Thaddeus brought his blade down on the man’s neck.
The rapist stood, trying to pull up his trousers and unsheathe his sword at the same time, but Gunnar was too quick. From behind, he pulled up the soldier’s chin with one hand and jammed a dagger into his exposed throat with the other. The Norman gurgled for a moment before going limp, and Gunnar dropped him to the floor.
Thaddeus helped the woman up from the table, and she curled her arms over her body, trying to cover her nakedness, as she wept uncontrollably.
“Modor, Modor,” her children cried as they ran to her, trying to nestle close to her.
Thaddeus removed his thick overcoat and draped it over the woman. She flinched at first but then seeing Thaddeus, and what he had done, she grabbed his hand, kissing it. She spoke quickly, and Thaddeus understood so little of the Anglo-Saxon language, he couldn’t make out what she was saying.
“Husband?” he asked in his limited English.
She nodded, still grasping his hand. Asaf knelt next to the unconscious man, putting several fingers to his neck.
“He’s alive,” Asaf said.
They placed the bodies of the Norman soldiers by the door of the small home as the mother had escorted her children into the other room and told them to stay there, despite their crying protests. As Asaf tended to him, with her modesty restored, she knelt over her husband as he slowly awoke. They held each other as they watched Thaddeus inspect the bodies and then say a silent prayer over them, crossing himself when he was done.
“Thank you,” the husband said, through Alden’s translation. Thaddeus had first asked Brant to translate, but the thane refused. It was beneath him to talk to these people, especially after being defiled.
“Does this sort of thing happen often?” Thaddeus asked, sensitive to the trauma the couple had just experienced, but still shocked by the soldiers invading their home.
Rape often happened in large cities, but the soldiers who protected the city attacking a woman in her home, with her husband and children there, was certainly uncommon.
“Yes,” the husband replied. He explained that a neighbor was raped the night before, her husband being killed in the process. The Anglo-Saxon people living outside the city walls got the worst of it, patrols going through their little villages and boroughs, ransacking and raping and murdering. Most of the children on the streets of the city were those thrown off their lands after their parents were killed.
“We need to do something with these bodies,” Asaf said.
“Ask him if he knows of someplace close by we can hide these men,” Thaddeus said to Alden.
The hearthguard did as he was asked. The man nodded and told them to wait.
“I don’t like this,” Brant said. “What if he is out getting more soldiers, hoping to turn us in for a reward and some favor in the eyes of the Count.”
“He’s not,” Thaddeus replied.
“How do you know?” Brant asked.
“I just do,” Thaddeus said.
The husband, a man named Hugh, returned with four other men. Brant took a step back, and Thaddeus saw his hand go to his sword, but each one of the men grabbed either the arms or ankles of the Norman soldiers before carrying them out of the home.
The wife—Hilda—knelt at Thaddeus’s feet, grabbing his hand once again and kissing it, saying something quickly.
“She doesn’t know how she can ever repay you,” Alden said.
“Be patient. These atrocities will end … and soon,” Thaddeus said. “And serve the Lord Christ, teaching your children to follow his commands,” he added, and after Alden translated, she nodded and lowered her head.
“We must leave now,” said Asaf as he looked out the open window. “It’s getting late, even for an alehouse in a busy city, and we don’t want to raise suspicions. Everyone seems to have gone into their homes, and the only light on this street is coming from the candles in here.”
Brant said something to Hilda, finally resigning himself to speaking to peasants. His voice was hard and cold and, when he took a step towards her, she ducked and sobbed quietly. Thaddeus shot Alden a look.
“He asked why their candles were burning so late,” Alden said, “and what they were up to. He thinks they invited the Normans in. He is accusing Hilda of being a prostitute.”
“He cannot be serious,” Gunnar said.
Hilda cried as Hugh stepped in front of his wife, dried blood caking his bald head, his forehead, and cheek. He exchanged harsh words with the thane, to which Brant seemed angry, suggesting he was shocked a peasant speak to a thane in such a tone.
“They have an older son they were waiting for,” Alden explained. “He left early this morning and hasn’t been back.”
“Tell them we must leave,” Thaddeus said. “Brant, calm yourself. Asaf, give them several loaves of bread and some coin. Would you say a blessing over this home?”
“Of course,” Asaf said, speaking softly with his eyes closed.
After Alden spoke to the husband and wife, Hugh grabbed Thaddeus’ hand, speaking hurriedly.
“He says we must stay here the night,” Alden said. And when Thaddeus shook his head, Alden added, “He insists.”
Thaddeus looked outside and then back at the couple and nodded his thanks. Brant, of course, protested staying in the meager home of these poor Saxon people.
“It’ll be too crowded,” Brant said.
“Sleep outside then,” Gunnar said.
“If anything, he should sleep outside,” Brant said, nodding to Alden.
“You can have our bed,” Hugh said through Alden.
Brant was happy to take the family’s only bed, and Thaddeus believed the thane would have taken it all for himself if he could have. But Thaddeus put a stop to that and said the warriors would sleep on the floor in the home’s main living space.
As the others settled down and were soon snoring, Thaddeus couldn’t sleep. He sat by the window, watching the dark street outside. It was cold and, with the constant drizzle, a slight fog rose up from the ground. As the beggars and homeless meandered about, they looked like ghosts, and among them, Thaddeus could see the possessed. Their eyes glowed and shimmered when the moon caught them, and their smell was unmistakable. When they saw Thaddeus staring at them, they hissed and scampered away. Then he saw two large eyes staring at him from the dark alley between two buildings across the street. They didn’t shimmer or glow but watched him intently.
She knows we are here.
Chapter 12
THADDEUS HADN’T REALIZED he had fallen asleep, his head resting on the sill of the window. His nose was cold, and it was still raining, but that wasn’t what woke him. The commotion of marching Norman troops, their boots slapping against puddles, forced his eyes open. His heart skipped a beat as their commander shouted at people in the street, commanding them to move. Had they found the dead bodies?
He looked to the center of the room and saw Alden, Gunnar, and Asaf gone. Only Jarvis and Brant lay there, the thane bundled in an extra layer of blankets and the huscarl had none. Thaddeus jumped up, sword in hand when the front door opened. It was Gunnar and Asaf, and he sighed with relief when he saw his friends.
“What’s going on?” Thaddeus asked in Greek as the thane and his house soldier stirred.
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