Those Who Go by Night

by Andrew Gaddes

  “I … tend not to drink too much these days. The missus doesn’t like it.” He gave a terribly forced laugh and patted his stomach. “And it don’t sit none too well with me. I guess I must be getting old.”

  It was excruciatingly weak stuff, and Alice watched the pantomime with a sardonic expression.

  “I see how it is. You have heard the stories that I poisoned my husbands, and now you fear that I might poison you as well.”

  She set her own cup down on the edge of the table and adjusted her seat, taking her time about it, letting them both stew in the uncomfortable silence. When she finally spoke, her voice was laced with bitterness.

  “You should consider that perhaps I was married at a tender age to service the wants of a doddering old man. Perhaps it was too much for his heart, and then perhaps as a young widow I was passed on to yet another doddering old man, even older than the last, to service his wants, and perhaps he suffered the same fate, or perhaps he died of old age. You might also consider that it was my stepchildren, who conveniently stand to inherit everything, now I am gone, who manufactured the charges against me.

  “Perhaps you believe the other stories about me as well. Let me see, of what else am I accused?”

  She tapped her lips thoughtfully with the tip of her finger.

  “Oh yes. I consort with demons. But that is a given, I suppose, when one is accused of witchcraft. And I chanted spells so that all the town’s wealth would come to me. Strange that such wealth as I possessed now appears to be going to my husband’s children, don’t you think? It was not a very effective spell, was it?

  “I shall not deign to repeat any of the more … lewd acts I am purported to have performed. Those I always find amusing. I think some of the men who put the charges together have very active imaginations, and I suspect their words say rather more about them than they do about me.”

  The constable frowned, uncertain as to her meaning. As comprehension dawned, he looked aside, his cheeks blushing a bright red for the second time.

  “And let us not forget that I am supposed to have summoned my very own incubus, Robert Artisson. A strange sort of name for a demon, wouldn’t you say? And they could never quite decide whether his skin was the dusky shade of a Saracen, or ebony like that of an Aethiopian. I must say, either way, it all sounded rather exciting to me. Very exotic.”

  Alice looked around her in an exaggerated fashion. “Now where could I have put that demon lover? They are never about when you want them. Such tiresome things.”

  Thomas stared at her in silence. He had never heard a woman speak like this. Not even the women that frequented Lincoln’s saltier taverns of an evening. He wasn’t quite sure what to say.

  “You are the son of a Templar knight, Thomas. I know your story, and I am truly sorry for what you and your family have suffered. I would have thought that you would be more sympathetic to one so wrongly accused. But I shall not take offense. Nor shall I let good wine go to waste.”

  With that, she picked up Thomas’s cup and downed it in one.

  Thomas felt utterly ashamed. “If your kind offer still stands, madam, I would welcome some wine.”

  “I can do it!”

  Hunydd had been sitting quietly and now leapt to her feet, bounded across the room, picked up the carafe, and, standing quite deliberately in front of Alice, poured some wine into Thomas’s cup. Thomas thought she leaned over just a little lower than she had to, just enough to remind him that there was more than one woman in the room. He remembered how Hunydd had looked in his dream, walking naked through the garden, and quickly crushed the thought.

  The constable had wasted no time downing his own wine and held out his cup for a refill, but Hunydd set the carafe down and returned to her seat, where she adjusted her skirts and sat primly, her hands resting lightly in her lap.

  “Right, I’ll just pour myself some more, then,” mumbled John, pouring himself a healthy measure.

  Alice returned her attention to Thomas and inhaled sharply when her eyes fell on the cross hanging around his neck.

  “What an interesting pendant, Thomas.”

  Thomas smiled. “It was a gift from someone dear to me.”

  He made as if to tuck it back into his tunic, but Alice had already plucked it up in her fingers and was now staring at it intently.

  “Cros Cheilteich,” she whispered, her thumb rubbing the surface slowly. She nodded to Hunydd and repeated herself in Hunydd’s native tongue: “Croes Geltaidd, Hunydd.”

  Both women were looking intently at the small piece of iron, and the men at them.

  “A Celtic cross,” Alice explained, “but a very interesting one.” Her thumb traced the circle. “Why this do you suppose?”

  Thomas shrugged. “I believe the circle represents the resurrection.”

  Alice smiled tolerantly. “Some say the nimbus represents the sun, or birth and death, the renewal of life. They think the Cros Cheilteich a blend—a harmonizing, if you will—of both pagan and Christian beliefs. Others say it is something else entirely. And the tracings here,” her thumb now rubbed the cross itself and the faint scratches on its surface, “what do you know of them?”

  Thomas shrugged again. The markings were indistinct, barely noticeable, and he had never been able to decipher them. He had always meant to ask his wife if she understood them, but she had died before he could do so.

  “This is a precious piece, Thomas,” she added. “Very precious indeed.” He was surprised at that. The pendant was simple iron and roughly shaped. Nothing special in appearance. It was precious to him, of course, but simply as a remembrance of Hawisa. “You should carry it with you and wear it close. Always.”

  Alice held his eyes for a long moment and then dropped the cross to his chest and sat back.

  “So, Thomas Lester, now you have uncovered me, now you have found me out, what will you do with me?”

  She did not appear particularly afraid.

  Thomas tucked the cross into his tunic. “I have no interest in causing you harm, and it is true that I am sympathetic to your plight. But you should know a hound is upon you, and it would be best for you to leave. It would be best for everyone.”

  Alice looked down at the hands folded in her lap. There was something very vulnerable about her in that moment. Thomas felt his heart swell with pity, but the risk could not be ignored.

  “Your presence here places your niece in danger, Alice. If the Dominican should find out …” He left the rest unspoken.

  “Do you think I am not aware of that?” she snapped, her eyes for the first time flashing angrily. “Or of the danger to Hunydd, for that matter? Yet what choice do I have? I am a wanted woman in fear for her life. No matter where I go, the bishop will never let me be. He is a truly terrible and most dogged man.”

  Alice bit down on her anger, and when she spoke again, it was in a calmer tone. “A ship is being readied to carry me to France with what little fortune I could bring with me. Rest assured, I shall be gone from here soon enough.”

  Thomas looked about the hut. “You are not concerned, living out here on your own?”

  “Not really. Nobody comes around here. And this place, as dismal as it may be, does not seem so bad when the sword of Damocles is hanging over one’s head.”

  The constable frowned in confusion and began looking about him, wondering where the sword was that she was talking about.

  “I understand the bishop’s men seized my maid, along with several others who were unfortunate enough to have been my servants or friends. I am sorry that they have suffered because of me. I am sure they all spoke against me. Who would not when tortured or even threatened with torture?” She looked at Thomas. “But you, of course, know this.”

  He nodded grimly, acknowledging the truth.

  “People will say anything to end the pain or in the hopes of saving themselves from it,” she explained. “They will lie if needed. I do not blame them and feel nothing but pity for what they suffered on my account. And to
think it was all done in the name of God. Do you think God would approve, Thomas? I do not.”

  She sighed and then rose to her feet. “Well, I suppose you must go. And perhaps you can see Hunydd safely home. She is kind enough to bring me some supplies on her mistress’s behalf and to carry messages for us, at no small peril to herself I might add.”

  “I don’t mind, mistress,” said Hunydd, “and I am careful.”

  Alice smiled indulgently. “She is also pleasant company and a clever girl. I will send her out in a moment. I have a message for her to convey to my niece. I trust I can count on your discretion, Thomas?”

  Thomas nodded, and he and John walked out the door.

  Once they were safely outside, waiting for Hunydd, the constable let out a low whistle. “By God that’s a woman and no mistake!”

  Thomas had to agree. He had never met anyone like her. Such a woman could drive men mad. Mad with lust. Mad with jealousy. She was a woman whom men would fight over. A real Helen of Troy. He wondered whether the Bishop of Ossory had acted out of personal animus. Perhaps he had found his advances spurned or was jealous of her attention to others. Or perhaps her forthrightness and success had merely offended his patriarchal sensibilities.

  John interrupted Thomas’s thoughts, nudging him with an elbow.

  “She’s a nice girl that. Hunydd, I mean. A right tasty little piece, I reckon. Tight little curves, pretty face. And if I am not mistaken, she’s setting her cap on you.”

  “That’s ridiculous, John.”

  “Is it now?” He looked at Thomas archly and grinned. “Truth be told, I thought you had your eyes on the mistress, not the maid.”

  “Why do you say so?”

  “Oh, no reason.” John treated Thomas to one of his rumbling chuckles. “Or maybe you’d just be liking Hunydd for a roll in the hay? A quick tumble. A bit of the old slap and tickle.” He nudged Thomas with his elbow and gave him a wink. “You could do far worse than cuddling up to that on a cold night, I reckon. Yes, I’ll wager she would give you a right going over. And she’s not likely to boss you about like the other one.”

  John was enjoying himself immensely, and Thomas pretended to be annoyed.

  They were silent for a while, and then John heaved a giant sigh and blew out another soft whistle. “By God, that’s a woman!” he repeated.

  “John, you understand we had best not speak of this.”

  The big man scowled at him, genuinely hurt. “I may be a big man, but I’m not daft. Anyway, she seemed alright … for a witch,” he added jokingly. “And a right looker too.”

  He sighed loudly again. “It would have been something, though, wouldn’t it, to see them girls dancing about under the moonlight?”

  Thomas smiled. “I suppose it would at that, John.”

  CHAPTER 14

  With grief we discover that there are many who are Christians only in name; many who turn away from the light which once was theirs, and allow their minds to be so clouded with the darkness of error as to enter into a league with death and a compact with hell. The very thought of it wrings our soul with anguish. They sacrifice to demons and adore them, they make or cause to be made images, rings, mirrors, phials, or some such thing in which by the arts of magic evil spirits are to be enclosed. From them they seek and receive replies, and ask aid in satisfying their evil desires. For a foul purpose they submit to the foulest slavery.

  —Pope John XXII, Decretal Super Illius Specula (1326)

  The sulfur match sputtered and flared into life, just long enough to light the candle, creating a wavering half-light in the midst of the darkness.

  The witch took up the lump of beeswax and began pressing her fingers into it. Pulling, twisting, stretching, and shaping. She worked quietly and confidently, softening the wax with the warmth of her hands, slowly teasing it into the crude shape of a man.

  Intense black eyes caught the light and glittered as she drew the figure closer, shaving the wax now with a thin splinter carved from a dog’s bone. It had to be bone, not metal. And from a loyal hound, a bitch, sacrificed under a full moon. The witch knew these things. She had learned them from her mother, who had been taught by her own mother before her, and so on for generations past. Every detail had to be attended to and perfect.

  Smiling, she began the finer work, etching the lines of fingers, toes, mouth, and even cock, before dabbing on color with the quill of a cockerel feather. A feather from a cockerel strangled underwater, mind, not a pigeon. That was a common mistake that marked the unknowing. The eyes had to be a soft brown, almost hazel. The tincture had taken some time to prepare, and she had tested and discarded several pastes until satisfied she had the color exact. It did not do to hasten such an important aspect. The more exact the poppet, the stronger the spell.

  Nothing else was needed. She had already melted a single strand of dark hair into the wax before molding it. It didn’t have to be hair, but hair worked well in most cases. She had seen others who would affix the hair to the poppet’s head. That made no sense at all to the witch. The poppet had to contain the essence of the person, to absorb it. And besides, a single hair on a bald waxen head looked plain silly and could easily come adrift.

  The witch looked down admiringly. It was perfect, the proportions exact, and the eyes almost lifelike. She passed the poppet high over the flame. Once, twice, three times. There was magic in the number three; even the Christians with their Holy Trinity knew this to be true. And three times was just enough to cause the poppet’s skin, as she now supposed it to be, to sweat. Then she held it aloft, and the wax hardened once more, curing any minute imperfections on the surface, and sealing in her work.

  Finally ready for the spell, the witch knelt, bowed her head as if in church, and with the poppet cradled to her breast, uttered the same name over and over in soft melodic tones, rocking back and forth in time to her chant, concentrating now more than ever. Over and over she chanted. Back and forth she rocked. By the time she stood again, the witch could sense the power in the air all around her.

  She glanced down at the table and picked up a sharp brass bodkin. The hand holding the pin hovered over the figure for a while, as if hesitant or making a decision, and then she stabbed her thumb sharply, deftly, a small bead of dark red blood welling up slowly from the wound. She smeared her thumb across the poppet, turning the pale wax a dark ochre color where it touched.

  Blood. Yes, blood was always necessary. Those who wished to gain must always be willing to sacrifice, the nature of the sacrifice proportionate to the extent of the wish and the skill of the practitioner. For someone less skilled than her, something more drastic might have been required. But she had a rare gift. She had been blessed from youth with a talent for the craft, and her conjurations rarely failed. A single drop of her blood would suffice. It would have been better in this instance, for this particular spell, to use her woman’s blood, of course. Unfortunately, she was not in flow and time was short, so this would have to do. And it would still work—she was sure of that.

  Her task complete, the witch smiled, the corners of her mouth curling up in triumph and genuine pleasure. Yes, this was good. This was very good. Her mother would have been proud.

  She threw back her head, tossing her hair behind her, and laughed once out loud. The candle’s flame flared in response, burnishing her painted flesh with a warm, mellow glow. She ran her hands over her nakedness, delighting in the smoothness of the skin, the firmness of her breasts, feeling as languid as a stretching cat. It was so easy to become distracted when the mad man’s moon was approaching, but she had work to do in the morning. There were herbs to gather. Motherwort. Hyssop. Monk’s hood. Rosemary. Nightshade, if she could still find any. And she needed aqua vitae for her tinctures. So much had been left behind.

  The witch sucked her thumb, tasting the iron tang of the blood, then licked her fingers and pinched out the flame, returning the room to blackness.

  CHAPTER 15

  “Bloody fool’s errand.”

/>   John was grumbling away to himself as he thrashed at the undergrowth with a wispy willow wand.

  “There’s nothing here I tell you.”

  Thomas ignored him. He had learned to trust his instincts, and his instincts had led him back to the path through the forest, to where he had sensed a malevolent presence the night before.

  He could not say what he expected to find. Perhaps the morning light would reveal something he could not have seen at night. Perhaps there would be nothing at all.

  “Bloody fool’s errand,” repeated John.

  The constable had taken Thomas’s silence as meaning he should not yet abandon the search, and had started beating at the undergrowth again, mumbling under his breath, forgetting how far his voice carried. Thomas wished he hadn’t brought him.

  “Wild bloody goose chase and no mistake.”

  Thomas sighed. Perhaps John was right. They had wandered far from the path now, and the chances of finding anything were growing ever more slim, especially with the constable stomping about, trampling everything in his way. And they had been at it for a full hour or more. Thomas was ready to give up himself.

  It was still early morning, not long after dawn, and tendrils of mist drifted low to the ground, clinging stubbornly here and there to the undergrowth, giving the air a moist feel, soon wetting to the face and clothes. A familiar beginning to what might have been just another autumn day. Then the clouds parted, and a single shaft of sunlight lanced through the canopy of leaves, revealing the barest hint of white, a mere wisp of cloth lying half-buried among the gnarled roots of one of the ancient trees; something not at home on the leaf-strewn forest floor; something that should not have been there.

  Thomas’s breath caught in his throat, and he stood stock-still, dread settling like a stone over his heart, as it had done only once before. He approached warily and then hissed in through his teeth, his worst fears realized.