To Kill a Witch

by Christopher Patterson

  “Why are we sending the boy?” Asaf asked Thaddeus when the two stood alone by the door. “Chesterfield is between Richmond and Winchester as the crow flies. There’s no need.”

  “We need to stay away from Prince Harold,” Thaddeus replied. “I told Brant that Count Stephen has gone to Winchester with a retinue of soldiers. When he asked why we would follow, I told him that our mission is one of espionage and that we must watch him and study his interactions with King William if we are to release the people of Richmond from his tyrannical grip.”

  “Did he accept your explanation?” Asaf asked with one cocked eyebrow and an almost mocking smile.

  “It sounds foolish, I know,” Thaddeus replied, “and he is already suspicious of us. But, yes, I think he accepted my story. I told him we must travel around Chesterfield, away from the usual road south, lest we run into the Count’s entourage, when he said we could alert the Prince of the Count’s absence. Of course, I do not know Prince Harold well, but I can tell he is the type of man that would seize the opportunity, believing Count Stephen is away, to lay siege to Richmond. It would be to the death of his men and many of the good, Saxon people living here.”

  “I hate this slinking around like some frumentarii,” Asaf said.

  “You make a very unlikely Roman spy, my friend but, for the moment, it is what we must do,” Thaddeus replied. “We must do the Lord’s work.”

  Thaddeus caught Alden’s attention and went to speak to Hilda and Hugh, taking one of their hands each into his.

  “Thank you for letting us send young Anson to Chesterfield,” Thaddeus said.

  “Good sir,” Hilda said, “it is the least we can do. Sincerely, you do not have to pay us. You have already done so much.”

  “Nonsense,” Thaddeus replied. “This must remain quiet, though. Many lives are at stake.”

  “Of course,” Hugh replied.

  “Do you remember the words?” Thaddeus asked Anson, Hugh and Hilda’s eldest son.

  “Yes sir,” Anson replied.

  “Repeat them,” Thaddeus said.

  “Pax vobiscum,” Anson said, and then added, “Pax in Cristo.”

  “Good,” Thaddeus said, then, he kissed both Hugh and his wife on their foreheads and crossed himself. “God be with you.”

  †

  The journey south, towards Winchester, took much longer than Thaddeus had hoped, and it bothered him more when he thought about the fact it would have taken the witch a fraction of the time it took them. She would have used supernatural means and dark magic to get to her destination. He found himself frustrated, and his resentment grew day by day as Brant’s griping and complaining increased, as did his abuse of his huscarl, Jarvis, and the hearthguard, Alden.

  “Damn it!” Brant screamed, kicking at Jarvis. “There’s mold on this bread.”

  “What do you expect in these conditions?” Gunnar asked.

  “Bread without mold,” Brant replied flatly.

  “Just break the moldy piece off,” Gunnar said, to which Brant growled and cursed under his breath.

  “You over there,” Brant said to Thaddeus as he trained with Alden, showing him some of the different fighting styles he had learned as a soldier traveling throughout the world. “I don’t know why you waste your time on that dog. A dog bites, and that is it. That’s why they hunt in packs. Alone, they are nothing.”

  “I am no dog you intolerant bigot,” Alden replied in Latin, stopping and glaring at the thane. He was an excellent student and, in their short time together, was able to hold conversations and understand the language of the Roman church.

  Brant leaned back, eyes wide for a moment and mouth open. He snapped his mouth shut and threw a twig into a fire that struggled to stay lit.

  “Teaching him Latin does nothing,” Brant mumbled, even though everyone could still hear him. “Wrap a dog in fine clothing and put a crown on his head and he is still a dog.”

  “Pay him no mind,” Thaddeus said quietly.

  “I don’t,” Alden replied.

  “Truly?” Thaddeus asked. “Just a few days ago you would have tried fighting him for saying such a thing.”

  “What does Jesus say?” Alden asked. “Turn the other cheek.”

  Thaddeus smiled.

  “Truly.”

  “Besides,” Alden added, “if what Gunnar says is true, then my ancestors fought the north men valiantly. They were the only Englishmen willing to stand against their raids while Brant’s ancestors bowed and groveled at their feet. If anyone is the dog, it is he. Look at the way he treats his huscarl.”

  “I don’t know if I would call any man a dog,” Thaddeus said. “I have seen many people refer to other people as lesser than them, and it always leads to tragedy and strife.”

  “I suppose that is one good thing about the Normans,” Alden said.

  “What is that?” Thaddeus asked.

  “History tells us slavery has been a way of life for my people, for generations,” Alden said. “Since the beginning of their existence.”

  “As it has been for many peoples,” Thaddeus said. “You are not alone. Gunnar’s people had slaves. My people had slaves. Even the Jews had slaves, even though it was, perhaps, a little different than a Saxon slave.”

  “Well, according to many of the elders that remember the conquest of Duke William,” Alden said, “the Normans freed many of the Saxon slaves. I have read the Bible, Thaddeus, and being a hearthguard, I had access to education. Saxon slaves were no better than animals. Some lords even castrated and branded their slaves.”

  “Sounds like the Romans,” Thaddeus muttered.

  “Most battles were fought over slaves,” Alden said, not hearing Thaddeus’ mumblings. He pointed to Brant. “Those like that one there would need a new concubine or three, and so they would attack a village and take all their young, pretty women, violating them and then selling them, sometimes as far afield as Denmark.”

  “So, life under the Normans is actually better?” Thaddeus asked.

  Alden shrugged.

  “Not necessarily,” Alden replied, “at least for some. Being a serf is a little better than being a slave. And the Normans are ruthless, with or without a witch influencing them. The elders say that when William the Conqueror traveled north to quell revolts, he killed so many people that he eradicated whole families, cutting off bloodlines forever.”

  “This land has always been wrought with chaos,” Thaddeus said.

  “How do you mean?” Alden asked.

  “Even when I first came to Britannia, it was violent and wild,” Thaddeus said, and, remembering, muttered, “and beautiful at the same time.”

  “You’ve been here before?” Alden asked. “It couldn’t have been that long ago. When?”

  Thaddeus knew that some gray touched the edges of his hair and peppered his beard, but it still lied about his age. He simply smiled.

  “Perhaps a story for another time,” he said.

  They traveled along the path of an old Roman road. Thaddeus couldn’t remember its name but knew it extended beyond a wall the Emperor Hadrian had built to the south of England. They kept their distance. Many travelers in England recognized the road as a major thoroughfare and traffic was, at times, unexpectedly heavy, and Thaddeus felt like avoiding traffic was good for the time being.

  “This is idiotic,” Brant had said.

  “The Devil … King William has spies everywhere,” Thaddeus had replied, to which Brant gave him an ever-growing look of suspicion.

  With the exception of Brant, they hunted and foraged each night, mostly ending up with only skinny rabbits and berries. One night, Gunnar brought a scrawny female roe deer back from a hunt, to which Brant scoffed, chiding the man for his hunting skills. When Gunnar challenged him, the thane went out the next day and killed a red stag, forcing Jarvis to drag it into their camp.

  “Why?” Thaddeus asked.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Brant replied.

  “Why kill the stag?” Thadd
eus asked.

  “Why not?” Brant replied.

  “The roe deer was still enough to last us the rest of the week,” Thaddeus said. “This stag would have sired dozens of fawns, and now most of its meat will go to waste.”

  “If we eat none of its meat,” Brant said, puffing out his chest with a look of confusion scrawling across his face, “what does it matter? I am a man. I killed the deer. It is my right.”

  Thaddeus only looked at Brant and shook his head. The thane would never understand.

  Chapter 14

  IT TOOK A FULL two weeks to reach the outskirts of Winchester, and the whole time was filled with arguing between Gunnar and Brant, or Alden and Brant, or Asaf and Brant. And as Thaddeus’ priestly friend grew grumpy and irritated, his Norseman friend increased his chiding of the man, which, only, in turn caused the thane to complain more. And poor Jarvis was always caught in the middle, receiving a boot or a backhand from his master for some slight over which he had no fault or control.

  Well into the county of Hampshire, they were less than a day away from the city, which they could see from the top of a chalk hill, when they decided to make camp early and rest up so they might enter Winchester before noon.

  “Is Asaf going to pretend to be some traveling monk again?” Gunnar, speaking Greek, asked with a smile as they made their way down the other side of the hill to reach a river.

  Thaddeus shook his head, although he had considered it.

  “No,” he replied. “I think it might be better if I pretended to be some minor noble, an insignificant manor lord from some small borough.”

  “Why?” Asaf asked, who trailed behind them.

  “I don’t know,” Thaddeus said with a slight chuckle. “Do you still want to be the center of attention?”

  “Hog’s piss,” Asaf cursed, and both Gunnar and Thaddeus laughed.

  “The moor in Richmond said the witch was posing as a Flemish noblewoman,” Thaddeus explained. “If I pose as a noble as well, perhaps we can get close. Nobles are always throwing parties for something. If we get invited, and the witch is there …”

  Thaddeus shrugged.

  “I guess it is as good a plan as any,” Asaf said.

  “And what of us?” Gunnar asked. “Will I be your personal bodyguard and Asaf will be your cook?”

  “You’re a turd,” Asaf growled as Thaddeus and Gunnar laughed again.

  “I do think, Gunnar, you should pose as my personal guard,” Thaddeus replied, “and Asaf can pose as a monk simply accompanying us to Winchester … maybe to see the new castle.”

  “And what about them?” Gunnar asked, jabbing a thumb towards Brant, Jarvis, and Alden.

  “Brant will certainly be the cook,” Thaddeus said with a smile.

  “He won’t like that,” Gunnar said.

  “Who cares?” Asaf interjected as he moved his horse alongside Gunnar’s and the Norseman threw his hands up defensively.

  “I think Alden could pose as another guard,” Thaddeus said, “and Jarvis could be my groomsman.”

  “And are we to ask to go straight to the castle?” Gunnar asked.

  “No, of course not,” Thaddeus said, placing a sarcastic hand to his chest and giving his friends a mocking half-bow. “I am but a lowly manor lord from … Malmesbury.”

  “Malmesbury?” Asaf asked.

  “Yes,” Thaddeus replied, giving him another pseudo-bow with his eyes haughtily half-closed. “You may call me Gregory, Lord of Malmesbury.”

  Thaddeus and Gunnar laughed and, after a moment of shaking his head and cursing under his breath, Asaf couldn’t help joining them.

  “So, what, then?” Asaf asked as they dismounted and let the horses drift over the river to drink.

  “What abbey is in Winchester, Alden?” Thaddeus asked, turning his attention to their Saxon friend and speaking in Latin.

  “Hyde Abbey,” Alden replied.

  “It is a good-sized abbey,” Brant added. “It is the resting place of Alfred the Great.”

  “Then we will ask for room and board at Hyde Abbey; they should be able to put us up,” Thaddeus said, speaking in Greek again. “Perhaps our grumpy Saxon pain in the backside over there will be in better spirits staying in the same place as the man who placed England’s seat of power with Wessex.”

  The three warriors laughed, and Brant eyed them with his usual, cold stare.

  Alden caught some fish and after eating they settled down to sleep, and as soon as the cock crowed, they were off again. By noon, they were close to Winchester.

  “Do you feel at home, Brant?” Thaddeus asked as they saw the first semblance of life settled around the capital of England.

  “I suppose so,” Brant replied, his voice flat.

  “This was your capital, was it not?” Thaddeus asked, referring to Brant’s beloved Wessex, a kingdom in its own right from the 6th century until the emergence of a united English state under the Wessex dynasty in the 10th century.

  “The Normans have corrupted it,” Brant said. “It is nothing like it once was. The Normans even demolished the old cathedral, opting to build a new one.”

  Thaddeus remembered the old Winchester Cathedral. It was a thing of beauty, a testament to the Old Saxon rulers who finally relented to the Roman church and accepted Christ. When he saw the old cathedral was no longer there, previously visible from far away, his stomach twisted, but probably less than Brant’s … if the man was capable of any emotional response apart from anger or jealousy.

  The Normans had constructed a new cathedral; one emulating the architectural genius of the ancient Romans. The building looked to be practically finished, some wooden scaffolding still around the building. Once finished, it would be a spectacular sight, a true homage to God. Even though the Lord didn’t need such grandeur, He certainly deserved it. One thing Thaddeus had noticed about the Normans, even though they were, at times, as ruthless and violent as their ancestor Norsemen, was their reverence to the Lord and the Roman Church. Everywhere they went, they left their mark with beautiful cathedrals such as this one.

  “You know, you can firstly thank the Romans for Winchester,” Gunnar said, a hint of humor in his voice as he spoke to Brant.

  “Piss on the Romans,” Brant said.

  “Let me guess,” Gunnar said, “they’re dogs.”

  “They support the Normans,” Brant replied.

  “Does it surprise you that Rome would support the Normans over a people barely past their pagan roots?” Asaf said, and Thaddeus knew that his priestly friend had had enough of the thane.

  “Peace, Asaf,” Thaddeus said.

  “And then,” Gunnar continued, “you can thank the Danes for Winchester.”

  The Norseman smiled as Brant’s his eyes went wide, and his cheeks blushed red above his beard.

  “How dare you?” the thane began, but Gunnar cut him off.

  “If it weren’t for the Danish invasions of England,” Gunnar continued, “your beloved Alfred the Great never would have fortified Winchester. So, even though I am not a Dane, as a representative of the Norsemen, you can thank me when you’re ready.”

  Brant looked as if he was about to explode, his cheeks all puffed out along with his chest. His face reminded Thaddeus of one after several days in the sun of the Holy Land, and he couldn’t help laughing a little. Brant just kicked his horse on and moved ahead.

  A combination of wooden and stone walls surrounded the city. The stone parts looked old and worn, and Thaddeus felt a small knot in his stomach as a memory tickled the back of his mind. The castle of Winchester was a motte and bailey castle with a large stone great keep at the center of the walled and raised motte. Thaddeus could see elements of construction and scaffolding, even from outside the city walls, surrounding the wooden fortifications of Winchester Castle and knew that William Rufus was in the early stages of constructing yet another stone castle.

  “He must believe he has an inexhaustible supply of money and labor,” Thaddeus said, shaking his head as rode ba
ck alongside Brant.

  Even the most devout rulers in Europe believed they were closer to God than everyone else. If they truly were Christian men, shouldn’t they be inclined to protect the people they ruled? And yet, most of these men viewed their subjects as little more than animals.

  “His treatment of the West Saxon people is abhorrent,” Brant said, his face still red but for a different reason this time.

  “Is he so different from the rulers of Wessex?” Thaddeus asked, remembering what Alden had said about the Saxons and slavery.

  “How dare you compare the kings of Wessex to this sodomite,” Brant cursed.

  “Didn’t they put men and women under the bondage of chains?” Thaddeus asked.

  “This is different,” Brant said and looked away.

  Of course, it was. Anything his people did was justified. He believed they were superior, as did most rulers and ruling people. Thaddeus, once again, entertained a thought that might have been unpopular among some of his present company. Was England better off with the Normans as its rulers?

  They led their horses to Hyde Abbey, a large monastery with several stories in some of the buildings and a tall enough bell tower to be seen from quite some distance. As they approached the front gate of the abbey, a young monk with billowing, black robes—the sign of the Benedictine monks—stood there watching them approach. Before they could say anything, however, a man ran past them, pushing Brant aside and bumping into Thaddeus. He was breathing hard and sweating as if he had been running.

  “Peace, peace now,” the monk said as the man reached him and grabbed an arm with two hands. “Whatever is your problem?”

  “My name is Rowan, and I just killed a Norman in an alehouse after he attacked me,” the man named Rowan huffed, now resting his hands on his knees as he bent over and tried to catch his breath. His lank brown hair clung to the side of his face, wet with sweat, his hands trembled and were stained red. “I seek asylum.”