To Kill a Witch

by Christopher Patterson

  “Who?” Gunnar asked.

  “Rowan,” Thaddeus replied. “The man who sought asylum in the abbey.”

  “Why would he be protecting a murderer?” Gunnar asked.

  “Because the man served the witch,” Thaddeus replied.

  “What?” Asaf asked.

  “How was he able to enter the abbey?” Gunnar said.

  “The man he killed was also a servant of the witch,” Thaddeus replied. “He was trying to flee. We were going to talk when we returned from the banquet.”

  “Why have you waited until now to tell us this?” Asaf asked.

  “I don’t know, damn it!” Thaddeus yelled as they walked up the night stairs to the dormitory. The person he was most angry with was himself ... for trusting Brant.

  They reached the dormitory to find a growing group of monks gathered around one of the bed cots in the room. They were muttering, and some of them were crossing themselves.

  “No,” Thaddeus whispered and ran to the crowd of monks pushing past them.

  His upper half naked, Rowan lay on a cot, his eyes staring at the ceiling, and his ribs displaying his lack of proper nourishment. The once white sheet beneath him was mostly red, with blood pooled on the stone floor and a thin red line ran from one ear to the other. It would have taken moments for him to bleed out.

  Thaddeus looked at the man’s hands and wrists; they were clean. Despite the death-smell of shit and piss, he had listened to Thaddeus and paid the monks to draw him a bath. Other than the slices at 90 degrees one another on his throat and shoulder, there were no signs of a struggle or trauma. This was the work of a most-efficient killer; with a very sharp knife.

  “Now do you think it’s important,” Asaf said, standing behind Thaddeus.

  Thaddeus turned and pushed past the former priest. Defrocked or not, now was not the time for confession.

  “Where is Brant?” asked Thaddeus, more to himself than anyone.

  †

  With one hand on the thane’s chest and an arm across his throat, Thaddeus drove Brant up against the wall of his cell. He breathed hard, and spittle flew from his mouth and onto the thane’s face as he seethed.

  “I said, where were you?” Thaddeus said through clenched teeth.

  Thaddeus had dragged the thane into the cell via his hair, and now Gunnar and Asaf just looked on, doing and saying nothing. They had tried, at first, to stop Thaddeus, but the look he gave them told them to stay back. Alden held Jarvis, the huscarl trying to come to his thane’s aid. He struggled, at first, but now just stood, letting the hearthguard hold his arms, and watched.

  “I told you,” Brant replied, struggling to get his words out against his restricted throat. “I was at an alehouse.”

  “I told you to stay here,” Thaddeus said, “and watch Rowan.”

  “I got bored,” Brant retorted, still struggling to speak, but also anger flashed across his eyes. “I got tired of watching a murderer.”

  “It’s most convenient,” Thaddeus said, “that you leave, and he is found dead.”

  Brant stopped struggling, his eyes widened, and his mouth turned down. He leaned forward, clenching his teeth.

  “What are you saying?” he asked.

  “You know what I’m saying.”

  “You think I killed him?” Brant exclaimed.

  “Did you?” Asaf asked, finally chiming in.

  “It would make sense,” Thaddeus said. “You hated him … for being a Norman. For being a criminal. For whatever you can hate a man for. Is that why you didn’t go to the banquet? So you could kill him? He could have helped us, you fool.”

  “I didn’t kill him, you idiot,” Brant said, leaning his head back against the wall and rolling his eyes. “What do I care about him? I left almost as soon as you left. You can ask that groveling novitiate who helped us when we first got here. He saw me leave.”

  “I don’t trust you,” Thaddeus said. “Gunnar, go ask the novitiate if he saw the thane here leave.”

  “Well, I don’t trust you,” Brant replied, “so the feeling is mutual.”

  Thaddeus finally let Brant go when Gunnar returned, only minutes later, confirming the thane’s alibi.

  “This is so much deeper than we thought,” Thaddeus said. “What we are doing here … this is much more than simply removing the Normans from power, and you just don’t realize that, do you, Brant? You have no idea what is happening in this world … and you don’t care.”

  “What are you talking about?” Brant asked, his expression changing from anger more to puzzlement, but he could still not hide his disdain.

  A part of Thaddeus wanted to tell Brant about the witch. Maybe he would realize. Maybe he would change. But, as Thaddeus stared into the man’s eyes, he knew he would never change. Brant shouldered him as he walked past the Greek, cursing as he left.

  “Aren’t you going to apologize to him?” Gunnar asked.

  “He may not have slit his throat,” Thaddeus said, “but he might as well have been the one with the knife. He is the reason Rowan is dead tonight.”

  “If he had stayed,” Gunnar said, “the man who killed Rowan might have killed him as well.”

  “Would that be such a bad thing?” Thaddeus asked, looking at the thane as he sat at the edge of Thaddeus’ cot and stared off into nothing and then at the Norseman.

  “Those are hard words,” Gunnar said, “and not like you, Thaddeus.”

  “Maybe I have changed,” Thaddeus replied.

  “In a day?” Gunnar asked.

  “Maybe we all have changed,” Thaddeus said, looking again at Gunnar.

  “Relax, Thaddeus,” Asaf said, sitting on his own bed.

  “If you don’t like the way I’m acting, why don’t you go sleep with them, in the common dormitory,” Thaddeus said.

  “I think I will,” Asaf replied. And he stood and walked out of the room. Then he turned around. “Sometimes, you’re an ass.”

  Thaddeus eyed his friends coldly as he closed the door to his cell.

  †

  Thaddeus couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind was filled with one of two visions. The first showed him Gunnar and Asaf, lying on a bed, the witch in between them. They were all naked; the men caressing the witch and themselves. They were covered in blood. Body parts and entrails littered the ground around the bed. Imps danced about the bed as well, feeding on flesh and cackling, spitting fire. When the witch was finished with Gunnar and Asaf, she disemboweled them with her fingernails and threw them off the bed, but not before removing their hearts with her bare hands and eating them.

  The second vision was just the witch … Renata. It was the same tall woman, long dark hair and reddish eyes. Her cheeks were soft, her nose a child-like button, and her lips red and plump. She was naked in this dream also, her breasts round and perfect, as were her hips. Her skin was a soft pale, a contrast to her dark, aroused nipples and her sex was completely shaven. Everything about her was perfect, and she called to him, touching herself and moaning. Thaddeus felt himself get aroused. She wanted him, and he wanted her. But it wasn’t just that she was perfect and beautiful and seductive, but she reminded Thaddeus of someone … a woman he once loved, so long ago.

  How many years had passed since Thaddeus had seen Chloe? Too many. How many years had it been since he had even thought of her for more than a flashing moment? She was his love, his wife, his everything, but she had passed so long ago, gone to meet the Lord far before her time, leaving Thaddeus to the pain and agony of roaming the earth without the one woman he loved. No other woman could ever compare to his bride, and this witch was using her, the memory of her, to reach Thaddeus.

  He sat up in his bed in the cell in the abbey and looked out of the small window. The sky suggested it was predawn, and the monks would be waking and getting ready to tend to their silent chores, reading the Gospel, and praying. Thaddeus dressed quickly and quietly, donning his normal traveling clothes. He had no desire to be recognized as some nobleman any
more. He just needed fresh air and a walk. Even though all the open doors suggested the monks were up and gone, he still stepped gingerly through the dormitory; his companions still slept. Through the stout oak door, he could still hear Asaf, snoring loudly as he often did. He didn’t want to wake them because he had no desire to be followed.

  He soon found himself standing next to a wall, the stone old and worn and dilapidated. It was once a fortress, but now it simply served as a piece of the city of Winchester, a distant memory most of its citizens would never remember.

  “You remember this wall, don’t you?” said a voice behind him.

  Despite his expectance of her presence, she had still stolen up on him, and Renata’s voice startled Thaddeus; he knew she would find him. She stood several paces behind him, a black and purple cloak hanging from her shoulders and touching the ground, its hood pulled over her head, staving off the early morning cold. She ran her fingers along the old, worn stone of the wall. Thaddeus did the same.

  “You remember it when it was strong,” she said, “when it was new and brilliant, so many years ago … centuries ago.”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “What was it called,” Renata asked, “when it was first built?”

  “Venta Belgarum,” Thaddeus replied. “It was one of the biggest cities in Britannia Superior.”

  “It was once strong and powerful and prideful,” Renata said, “much like you.”

  She stared at him, and Thaddeus returned the gaze.

  “And now it is old and broken, a puppet for some other ruler,” she continued, “much like you.”

  “I’m no puppet,” Thaddeus said, turning and walking away, but keeping his hand on the wall. It held so many memories.

  “Are you not?” she asked. “Then leave. Go home. Take your own life. Do what you wish to do.”

  Thaddeus didn’t answer her.

  “You serve a loving God,” Renata said, managing to keep her voice even as she said His name, “but look what He has done to you. Would a God that loves His people put someone—a loyal follower such as yourself—through so much heartache and pain?”

  “You have no idea what you’re saying,” Thaddeus said, barely turning his head to look at the witch over his shoulder, but her words stung him, and he felt a knot growing in his stomach.

  “Your God is so merciful, and, yet, He let your Chloe die, didn’t He?” the witch said.

  Thaddeus turned to face her, tears in his eyes.

  “He let your parents die. Your sister … raped by the very people you served,” the witch continued. “What has your faith brought you but pain and ruin?”

  “There is more to this world than just pleasure and getting what you want,” Thaddeus said.

  “Is there?” the witch replied, as the response actually surprised her. “I don’t know. I rather like pleasure. I rather like getting what I want.”

  She moaned and pushed her fingers firmly between her legs as she spoke, closing her eyes for a moment and running her lips across her teeth. They were too good for a normal woman; better than they had been the night before as she danced her act before the king.

  “At what cost?” Thaddeus asked. “You’ll still only be nothing more than Lucifer’s whore when it is all over.”

  She smiled, almost laughed even, as she opened her eyes and lifted her hand to push a stray lock of hair back into her hood.

  “A warlock from the far east once suggested it was better to lead in hell than serve in heaven,” the witch said. “I wonder what he thinks now. It is what he said to me before I slit his throat, cut off his balls, and burned them to perform a spell.”

  Thaddeus shook his head.

  “The truth is, I don’t care,” Renata said. “But what of you? What has your pathetic faith brought you? What has your service brought? You so blindly serve your Lord, and for what? So that you can wander the world for centuries as his pawn? And when will it end? How long have you been serving?”

  “It is of no concern to you.”

  The answer was eight centuries, but before that, it was service to Rome. But he would not discuss that with her.

  “So be it, but I know you were once a respected man, a legionary, a centurion,” Renata mocked. “You rose above what any Laconian should have ever achieved in Rome. You have the blood of the Spartans running through your veins, and now look at you, you pathetic specimen.”

  Thaddeus stepped to the witch, quickly, almost an attack, and, for a moment, she looked surprised, scared even.

  “What choice did I have?” he said with a hiss. “I’m a murderer, and I will kill you.”

  “I doubt it, and we all are killers, in some way,” the witch said recovering her composure.

  “This is my penance,” Thaddeus said, taking a step back. “This is my punishment for persecuting the Lord’s people. God gave me a choice, and this is what I chose. I chose better than you whore.”

  “Paul persecuted the Christians,” Renata said, ignoring his jibe, “and what happened to him? Did God force him to wander the earth for centuries, doing every little menial task the Host of Hosts and Lord Most High asked of him?”

  The witch spoke of God in a condescending tone, mocking his titles and spitting on the ground, just in front of Thaddeus’ feet, when she was done.

  “You are a fool,” the witch said.

  “Perhaps,” Thaddeus said, his eyes locked on hers.

  “What would you give, Thaddeus,” the witch asked quietly, “to have your life back? What would you give to do it all over again? What would you give … to have your Chloe back?”

  “Don’t even mention her name from that evil mouth of yours, she is of no concern to you.”

  What would I give to have Chloe back? To be with her one more day? Anything.

  Thaddeus stared at his hands, and when he looked again, it wasn’t the witch who stood before him. It was an olive-skinned woman with curly, brown hair that fell to her waist. Most wouldn’t call her a beauty, but they would say she was tough and resilient, and that was what Thaddeus found so appealing in the woman … Chloe … his wife.

  She didn’t have the large breasts and round hips most men wanted. Nor did she have the soft, womanly features that spoke of a woman who would sit at home and birth out children and cook for her husband. God be good, they never had children, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.

  For a brief moment, Thaddeus thought he could step forward and melt into her arms, but he knew this wasn’t Chloe. It was more witchery. Her charm might have worked on a normal man like Gunnar, and he was only a little over two hundred years old. But Thaddeus had seen dark magic much more powerful than anything this witch could wield.

  He reached out, pretending to stroke the witch, still disguised as Chloe, on the cheek, but instead, he grabbed her by the throat and the image of his wife disappeared, with the witch struggling under his grip. He had taken her by surprise. Her eyes told him so. He squeezed harder, and she struggled, grasping at his wrist. He felt a tingle crawling up his arm and knew she was trying to cast a spell. Strangling her wouldn’t kill her, but she would need to take some time to recover, heal this body she wore, and regain her strength.

  Renata whispered something, and Thaddeus felt the strength in his hands dissipate. His chest tightened, and he found it hard to breathe as he released the woman and stepped back. His hand went to the handle of his sword.

  “That’ll do you little good,” the witch said, taking in a few deep breaths.

  She was right. He would need to sprinkle holy water on the blade or have a priest bless it.

  Just then, a bell rang out, from the castle of Winchester. Both Thaddeus and the witch looked to the tall, wooden keep. The witch laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Thaddeus asked with a sneer.

  “Word will spread soon enough,” she replied, “but the King’s aunt is dead. She died peacefully in her sleep.”

  “She was already dead, wasn’t she?” Thaddeus asked.

  The wit
ch just waved a hand, suggesting the matter was inconsequential.

  “Your evil influence on this land will end soon enough,” Thaddeus said through clenched teeth.

  “What do I have to influence?” the witch said with a laugh. “The Scots and the Normans slaughter each other. The Normans and the Saxons slaughter each other. The Scots and the Danes slaughter each other. The eastern church slaughters the western church and vice versa. The Christians slaughter the Muslims and the Jews, who slaughter each other. Robert of Normandy’s men and William of England’s men slaughter each other. You men need no influence to do great evil to one another. I am simply here to enjoy the show and reap the rewards of your own evil doing.”

  Thaddeus just glared at Renata.

  “So pitiful,” she said with a feigned pouting lip. “You think that by killing me, you will stop the death and hatred in this land? Do you not see what a fool’s errand your God has sent you on? What is your purpose? Your life is folly. You are a simple source of amusement for the One Most High. Surely, He sits on His throne of blessed followers looking down on you and laughing.”

  With that, Renata let out a laugh, one that made her sound like a witch in children’s theater.

  “You will realize it soon enough,” she said, “but then again, after almost nine hundred years, maybe not. Thankfully, some of your brethren have already figured out they are simple tools.”

  Thaddeus had had enough. With practiced ease, he gripped his sword, drew it, and curved it towards her neck in one, smooth movement, but he was far from quick enough. In that instant, the air around the witch swirled like a whirlpool, sucking everything into her center. With a single flash of light, she was gone. The rain came down harder, and it was only a matter of moments before Thaddeus stood next to the ancient Roman wall, hair soaked and water running down his back.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” someone yelled from behind Thaddeus as he put his sword away.

  He turned to see two foot soldiers wearing their long, white tabards bearing the sigil of King William II. They both held spears and blue kite shields, and their cloth coifs hung slack, soaked from the rain as the water plinked off their conical helms.