Thaddeus looked up at the castle. It was a huge stone structure constructed differently from many of the mostly wooden castles of England and France, with a large stone tower and two curtain walls, one smaller and one larger. The larger curtain wall undoubtedly contained most of the castle’s buildings and was built along a steep slope that eventually gave way to the River Swale, making it almost impossible to enter the compound from there. The smaller curtain wall, which surrounded the front of the keep, was tall, with a raised, stone walkway leading to the gatehouse.
“We have to create a distraction,” Thaddeus said.
They slinked along the shadows of Richmond’s streets until coming to Chandler Street. There, they tiptoed along until they reached a familiar door. The single window in the house was dark. Thaddeus knocked softly. Nothing. He heard footsteps, just down the street.
“Hurry, Thaddeus,” Gunnar said.
Thaddeus knocked again. Still nothing. Again, this time a little louder. Still nothing. The footsteps came closer.
“Soldiers,” Asaf whispered. “Either get us into the house or get ready for a fight.”
Thaddeus knocked one more time. Still nothing.
“Damn it,” Thaddeus muttered.
He knew the door had a simple latch on the other side, a piece of wood Hugh would slide through an iron loop. The footsteps were just around a simple bend in the street. It was dark, so he couldn’t see any shadows, but the patrol was getting closer. Thaddeus pushed on the door and felt the wooden lock catch against the iron loop. He pushed again, putting his shoulder into the door, and heard the wood moving, cracking a bit. He heard Alden unsheathe his sword and looked over his shoulder. The soldiers would soon discover them.
Thaddeus shouldered the door as hard as he could and heard wood crack before the slight clink of metal as the iron catch bounced across the room. The five men spilled into the house before Gunnar pushed the door and held it closed with his foot. They could hear the soldiers talking outside, wondering what the noise had been.
Someone emerged from the bedroom.
“What the …” a man began to say in English, but Thaddeus grabbed him and pulled him to the ground, clapping a hand over the man’s mouth.
“It’s me, Hugh,” Thaddeus whispered in his best English.
He could see the man look up at him, and he stopped struggling, understanding. Thaddeus removed his hand. At the same time, Hilda emerged from the bedroom, but before she could scream, Asaf grabbed her by the shoulders, clapped his hand over her mouth and shushed her with his other hand. Hugh muttered something to her, and she nodded.
One of the soldiers knocked and then pushed on the door. Gunnar pushed back with his foot, allowing a little give so that it felt like the door was still being held in place by a lock. The soldier knocked again, louder.
“S’ouvrir,” the soldier said.
“Onhlid!” another soldier said, a little louder.
Hugh pointed to a corner of the room, and Thaddeus understood. He grabbed Asaf’s shoulder, and they huddled in that corner, out of sight in the shadows. Thaddeus drew his sword as both Gunnar and Asaf held daggers.
Hugh opened the door. The soldiers sounded angry, and one stepped a foot inside the house, but the Saxon man began to plead with the soldier. Thaddeus couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it seemed to be working, and the soldier stepped back as the conversation went on. But then Ansom poked his head out of the bedroom. With the open door and a bit of moonlight, Thaddeus could see the boy’s furled eyebrows and pursed lips, and he prayed Hugh’s son didn’t do anything stupid, but the boy just waited. Hilda whispered something to her son and came to Hugh’s side, acting as if she had just woken up, rubbing her eyes and giving a fake yawn. Thaddeus could tell that the soldiers mocked the woman about the recent rape, which made her visually uncomfortable, but eventually, one of the soldiers gave Hugh a hard shove and then walked away, laughing.
Thaddeus stood, and Hugh and Hilda both hugged him, as did Anson and the other little ones when they finally emerged from the bedroom.
“I will fix your lock,” Thaddeus said, through Alden.
Hugh waved him off with a hand.
“What are you doing here?” Hugh asked.
“We have unfinished business,” Thaddeus said.
“You shouldn’t have come back,” Hugh said. “Richmond is cursed.”
“I know,” Thaddeus replied. “That is why we are here.”
Hugh gave Thaddeus a curious look.
“It is complicated,” Thaddeus said, “but we are here to help the people of Richmond, Hugh. These dark days are nigh at an end. Have faith.”
“We trust you,” Hugh said, “but Count Stephen …” The man looked close to tears.
“... he is evil, and you cannot fight the whole of Richmond’s garrison.”
“This is not the Count’s doing,” Thaddeus said. Seeing another confused look crossing Hugh’s face when Alden translated, Thaddeus added, “I cannot explain. Just know we are here to lift the curse that is on this city and its people.”
“It will take a miracle,” Hilda said.
“We’ve seen plenty of miracles in our days,” Thaddeus said, “and in worse situations and places.”
“The Count has ordered the deaths of dozens of Richmond’s citizens,” Hugh said, “but mostly the younger men and women. He is having them crucified, as much as he can, like our blessed Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. God have mercy on this place and on their souls.”
“We saw,” Thaddeus replied. “Truly, the Lord will have mercy on their souls.”
“It is an impossible task,” Hugh said.
“Do you trust our Lord?” Thaddeus asked, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Yes, sir,” Hugh said, lowering his head for doubting God.
“Then trust, my good man,” Thaddeus said. “God has sent us here to help. Trust in Him and, so, trust in us.”
Hugh crossed himself.
“I am sorry for my unbelief ...” Hugh began.
“Stop,” Thaddeus said. “You are a good and faithful man. But to do this, to do what the Lord has called us to do, we need to create a distraction,” he said.
“A distraction?” Hugh asked.
“Yes,” Thaddeus replied. “We need to draw the soldiers and guards away from the castle. That is where the witch is. A fire in a city like Richmond will surely command their attention.”
Alden looked as if he might argue but still translated.
“A fire,” Hilda said, voicing Alden’s thoughts. “That could destroy everything. There would be no way to contain it.”
“Trust. Trust in the Lord. Please look after Jarvis but go tell your neighbors to stay inside their homes,” Thaddeus commanded.
“It is the dead of night,” Hugh said.
“Wake them,” Thaddeus said. “Tell them that they are to tell their neighbors, and their neighbors are to tell theirs, and so on. Once we start the fire, they will be safe if they stay in their homes. Asaf?”
The defrocked priest looked at Thaddeus.
“That will take a lot,” Asaf said.
“We will have time to rest after this is done,” Thaddeus said.
“Will we?” Asaf asked.
“Asaf will be in the bedroom, praying,” Thaddeus explained. “He is to remain undisturbed. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Hilda replied.
“Anson, is there an area of the city with storage buildings and wood piles?” Thaddeus asked.
“Yes, there is,” Anson replied.
“Can you take us there?” Thaddeus asked.
“No,” Hilda said with wide eyes, grabbing one of her son’s arms. “He cannot leave this home.”
“Hilda, he will be fine,” Thaddeus said.
“Absolutely not,” Hilda said, tears streaming down her face.
“Please, trust me,” Thaddeus said.
“Wife, these men are godly men,” Hugh said. “They are blessed, holy warriors. We must
trust them.”
Thaddeus grabbed Anson’s shoulder, gently pulling him away from his mother. Hilda buried her face in her hands and wept. He looked to Hugh. The man simply nodded with a flat mouth.
“Hurry, we don’t have any time,” Thaddeus said.
Thaddeus, Gunnar, Alden, and Anson ran through the city as quickly as they could, using the shadows from tall buildings to mask them as best as possible. The streets were quiet and still, not the usual darkness of night that anyone might find in northern Europe as the sun set, but an uneasy stillness. It was as if fear hung over the city like a thick blanket and, if Thaddeus could see through walls, families huddled together in the farthest corners of their homes.
They finally came to a far corner of the northwestern part of the city. It was an open area, lit comparatively well by torches and two pyres. At least half a dozen soldiers congregated around a fire built into a brick enclosure. They were loud, breaking the eerie and uneasy silence with lewd joking and cursing in Frankish, but as much as their noise would hide any movement, it still brought discomfort. They spoke of bedding virgin girls in the city and beating their fathers, or stealing from the market vendors, terrorizing the simple serfs of the county, or laughing at crying mothers as they nailed their sons and daughters and husbands to poles and displayed them along the road leading to Richmond.
Wooden buildings sat along the wall, all storehouses and warehouses of some sort. An open stall stood on the other side of the narrow road across from them, still hidden in the darkness of night. Thaddeus sniffed at the air and heard the neighing of several horses. One soldier grabbed a log from a pile of wood stacked on one side of the pyre farthest from where Thaddeus and his companions hid in the shadows. The soldier saw nothing amiss, and he turned again to drop the wood into the fire.
“I count eleven men,” Gunnar whispered.
Thaddeus nodded.
“With only three of us that can fight,” Gunnar added, “those are not good odds.”
“We will release the horses,” Thaddeus said. “That will draw at least some of the soldiers away. Then we will set the hay on fire … and those wooden buildings.”
“Will Asaf be able to protect the city and its believers?” Gunnar asked.
“God will,” Thaddeus said, looking at his friend, eye to eye, and smiling. “Anson, do you know your way back home, in the darkness?”
“Yes sir,” Anson replied, and Thaddeus gave more instructions via Alden.
“You will unhitch the horses, shoo them out of the stables, and then run home as fast as you can, unseen,” Thaddeus said.
“Yes sir,” Anson replied. Thaddeus could see a mixture of excitement and fear, even in the darkness, on the boy’s face.
Anson stood and moved to do as he was told, but Thaddeus grabbed his arm.
“Do you know what an owl sounds like?” he asked.
Anson nodded after Alden translated.
“Do not release the horses until you hear the sound of an owl,” Thaddeus commanded.
Anson nodded again.
“Go with God,” Thaddeus said in his limited Saxon.
Anson nodded once more, smiled, and hurried off into the darkness.
Thaddeus waited only a little while before tapping Gunnar on the shoulder. Gunnar cupped his hands around his mouth and hooted.
In only a few moments, a loud whinny broke through the silence of the city, and the soldiers’ conversation stopped. Thaddeus saw the silhouette of a young man running as wood crashed and hooves stomped.
“Goddamn it!” yelled one of the soldiers.
“I bet it’s one of those little Saxon bastards,” another one cried, “playing tricks again.”
“Won’t be so funny when he watches me fuck his mother,” another soldier said.
“Or when I nail his little prick to a wooden pole,” yet another said, which brought laughter from the others.
“Well?” a different voice, one that was rough and deep, asked. “Are you fatherless cumberwolds going to just laugh, or are you going to retrieve those horses and slap that little bastard in irons?”
The laughing stopped, and four soldiers ran off in the same direction Anson had run.
“Run fast, boy,” Gunnar muttered.
“He’ll be fine,” Thaddeus said, putting a comforting hand on the large man’s shoulder.
The deep voiced soldier matched his speech, large and mean and dark. Where the other soldiers wore shirts made of thick leather and cloth, he wore an iron hauberk, and where the others held spears, wore conical helms, and carried kite shields, he simply wore a long sword at his hip, carried no shield, and wore no helm. Dark hair curled into thick knots spilled over his shoulders, and a bramble of a black beard hung from his face. His eyes were barely visible under thick and equally dark eyebrows. The man looked a giant among the other soldiers, broad and strong and tall.
“Be on the lookout you stupid muck-spouts,” the obvious leader said, one thumb tucked into the front of a wide belt buckled around his hauberk and the other hand pointing to each of the six remaining soldiers. “Something is afoot, and you raggabrashes are over here joking and lying about women you’ve never stuck.”
“I don’t know about that,” one soldier quipped, but before anyone else could laugh, the backhand of their leader struck the soldier across the face, sending him to the ground. He stood, spitting out a tooth, wiping blood away from his mouth, and wobbling a bit.
“Any more jokes?”
None of the soldiers said anything.
“Do you have a dagger?” Thaddeus asked.
Gunnar nodded.
“I will take the one closest to us. You take the one farthest with your spear and then that blond one with your dagger,” Thaddeus commanded. “That will leave four. I like those odds much better. Alden, be ready.”
Alden nodded, holding his sword in both hands. Thaddeus gave Gunnar a nod, and that was all the large man needed. He hefted his spear, and the thick piece of wood tipped with a razor-sharp iron blade thudded so hard into the soldier’s chest—a tall, lanky man—that he flew backward several feet before crashing into a pile of wooden crates. The commotion caused the two men closest to them—both short, younger men with naught a single hair on their combined chins—to turn, exposing the flesh of their necks. Thaddeus and Gunnar threw their daggers in unison, both blades sinking into their marks. The soldiers clutched at the weapons and gurgled, blood pouring from their mouths as they fell to their knees, life escaping them.
The three men rushed from the shadows. The only Norman that wasn’t distracted by the commotion and killing was the large leader, and he bellowed when he saw Thaddeus and Gunnar and Alden.
“Stop looking at dead men, you sons of whores!” he cried. Then he pointed at Thaddeus. “The enemy is there!”
Thaddeus had completed his Roman training more than eight hundred years before, but it was one of those things that never left him. He had never encountered tuition and practice as thorough and rigid as that of a Roman soldier, let alone his preparation to become a Centurion. Gunnar was brutal and strong and fierce, but Thaddeus was the better fighter, and his skill in battle was second to none. There were many moments in Thaddeus’ life he didn’t feel like he was good at anything, but the one thing he was good at was fighting … and killing.
He easily sidestepped the first soldier that came at him, pushing him aside with his free hand and leaving him for Gunnar. He heard the man’s short scream as he undoubtedly met his demise at the Norseman’s heavy long sword. The next man jabbed his spear at Thaddeus, who spun away, stepped on the spear tip as it dipped, and cut the weapon in two with his sword. Before the Norman could draw his own blade, Thaddeus had knocked his kite shield away with a backhanded swipe of his sword and then brought the tip of his blade across the soldier’s chest. It wasn’t a killing blow, but enough to draw blood and bring the man to one knee, but Thaddeus didn’t finish him. He left that to Gunnar and Alden.
“You fools!” the leader of the Norm
ans cried. “Run and get help! I’ll take care of these three!”
The big man pushed the last soldier away, and the man dropped his spear and ran.
“Alden, follow him,” Thaddeus said. “Make sure he doesn’t reach help.”
Thaddeus heard Alden’s boots behind him, running after the Norman soldier.
The leader drew his long sword and laughed a deep, condescending laugh.
“Saxon filth,” he said. “I’m going to rip your intestines out of your ass before I kill you.”
“Neither one of us are Saxon,” Thaddeus said, the leader surprised when heard Frankish, “and we don’t plan on dying today.”
The large Norman wasn’t nearly as tough as Thaddeus thought he would be. He was a large man and, as he blocked one of his strikes, he could tell he was strong, but it must have been his size and strength that resulted in his promotions because his prowess as a soldier was to be desired. Three hearty swings at Thaddeus visibly wore the man down. Gunnar’s thick blade across his shoulder brought him to his knees. A fist to the face cracked several teeth and brought tears, and Thaddeus’ sword to the back of the man’s neck brought a quick death.
“Set fire to the stables,” Thaddeus commanded. “I’ll put fire to the storerooms.”
Gunnar grabbed a log from the soldiers’ fire, and Thaddeus took one from one of the pyres that lit that part of the city. The hay caught quickly, even in the dampness of the English weather, but the storerooms took considerably more work. By the time they went up in flames, Thaddeus must have stuffed half the wood from the pyres against their sides.
“That ought to do it,” Thaddeus said as both men watched the surrounding buildings burst into flames.
“I hope Asaf is ready to do his part,” Gunnar said, and a faint blue glow towards the southwest part of the city said that he was. “Where is that damn Saxon, Alden?”
And, as if on cue, Alden stepped into the light of the burning buildings, blood smattered across both his face and his sword.
To Kill a Witch Page 22