Those Who Go by Night

by Andrew Gaddes

  The knifeman lurched off balance, caught by the surprising move. Guy recovered his feet quickly, but Thomas too was aware of the need to be decisive and smashed his palm upward under Guy’s chin. Not too hard, but enough to rock Guy’s head back. It was a stunning blow, and Thomas knew then that the fight was already won. He twisted Guy’s wrist sharply, and the knife tumbled from numb fingers and clattered to the floor. Thomas was on him before the blade even struck dirt. Holding him steady by his twisted arm, he punched Guy hard in the face. Once. Twice. He heard the crack as Guy’s nose broke, spraying a gout of blood over them both. But Thomas hit him again and again, Guy’s head rebounding wickedly from each blow. There was no light in the man’s eyes now, and he sagged limply, held up only by Thomas’s grip.

  Thomas drew back his fist to strike him again; a knuckled blow to the temple this time—a killing blow. But he happened to glance across and see Hunydd’s expression. She was staring up at him in shock, her eyes big and round, and her hand pressed over her gaping mouth. Thomas froze in place. His chest was heaving, and his hair had fallen across his eyes. He probably looked half-crazed. The mist parted, and he could suddenly see Guy’s ruined face, the blood smearing his fist and clothes, the way he must look to Hunydd, and he let Guy fall to the ground, dropping him like a sack of flour.

  Thomas was filled with shame. He knew Hunydd would never look at him the same way again. They never did.

  Hunydd clambered slowly to her feet. When Thomas reached out to help her, she brushed his arm aside, barely looking at him, and limped over to Guy. Holding her torn kirtle to her body, she delivered a vicious kick to his ribs with the toe of her neat little ankle boot. And another. And another. Drawing her leg back each time and grunting with effort. Guy’s body jerked spasmodically, and Thomas heard the distinct cracking of a rib bone, maybe two, before he managed to rouse himself and haul her off.

  It was then that the cottage door shuddered under a sudden, tremendous impact and burst inward, the frame shattering with a great crack, the door splintering almost down its entire length.

  “I’ll have you, you bastard!” yelled Constable John, his face a livid mask of fury.

  When he saw the ruined body slumped on the floor, and the two of them standing over it, John unbunched his fists and hitched his belt up about his belly. “Well, I guess that’s taken care of then. And there was me looking forward to a bit of a scrap. Especially with that bastard.”

  Hunydd gasped out loud. “Oh, God, Dame Alice! Thomas, they made me tell. I am so sorry. They said they would hurt me. They said—”

  Thomas grasped her shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “All will be well, Hunydd, you’ll see. And none of this is your fault.” She looked down, and he tipped her chin up so she looked back at him. “Whatever happens, it’s not your fault. Do you believe me?”

  She nodded once, and he glanced from her to the body and then to the constable. The big man read his thoughts.

  “Don’t you worry; I’ll take care of them both. Go and do what needs to be done, and be right quick about it.”

  Thomas nodded his thanks and was off, leaving the constable holding Hunydd gently to his chest. He did not look back. Had he done so, he might have seen that the black eyes following him bore not a trace of worry, and that her mouth twitched just slightly at the corner.

  Deep down Hunydd had known that Thomas would save her in the end, and he had been so brave, like a knight from some old ballad riding to save his one true love. It was so romantic. Dawn was coming soon, and with it a new day. Everything was as it should be, just as she had imagined. And Hunydd was not afraid anymore.

  CHAPTER 25

  There shall not be found with thee any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, one that useth divination, one that practiseth augury, or an enchanter, or a sorcerer, or a charmer, or a consulter with a familiar spirit, or a wizard, or a necromancer. For whosoever doeth these things is an abomination unto Jehovah; and because of these abominations Jehovah thy God doth drive them out from before thee.

  —Deuteronomy 18:10–12

  Friar Justus could scarcely believe his good fortune. A witch. He had uncovered an honest to goodness witch. And not just some mad old dabbler in the dark arts, but the Kilkenny Sorceress herself! Hers was a capture sure to excite the whole of Christendom.

  His staff squelched and sucked at the mud of the leaf-strewn forest path as he thumped it down excitedly in rhythm to his stride.

  God had finally seen fit to reward his faith. At long last he was about to face a true diabolist. A woman known to be a necromancer and an invoker of demons, armed with spells, incantations, and God only knew what other unholy powers.

  The Dominican’s pace slowed to an amble. It was said Dame Alice Kyteler had killed at least three men. That she had summoned a powerful incubus to do her bidding. That she drank blood from the skulls of her victims. Justus now stood motionless in the middle of the path, gnawing his lip, his confidence slowly but surely ebbing away.

  He had been so anxious to confront Kyteler before she could manage an escape that he had left Guy behind with strict instructions to follow along only after he had secured the maid for future examination. In hindsight that seemed a little rash. Perhaps he should have waited for Guy. Perhaps he should even turn back.

  The Dominican huffed angrily. That was the Devil speaking, trying to sow seeds of doubt in his mind and deter him from his path. He would not listen to him. Besides, it was not as if he was unprepared. Justus patted the satchel hanging at his hip and felt the comfortable heft of his Bible and the irons with which he intended to shackle her. He had his cross. And he had his staff, hewn from solid English oak and weighted with a heavy brass tip. It had served before to deliver a beating or two to those he found wanting in grace, and it would more than suffice if Kyteler needed to be disciplined. Most importantly, he reminded himself, he would be shielded by his faith in the Lord. What greater protection could there possibly be against evil?

  Justus stabbed his staff into the ground and strode ahead, ashamed of his momentary weakness. His pace quickened, and in his excitement he had to hold himself back from breaking into an unseemly shuffling run.

  Once he had secured the witch, he would be able to bring the full weight of the Inquisition to bear upon Bottesford. Naturally, he would be the lead inquisitor. And there would need to be a second, someone who would defer to his experience, who would let him take the lead in the interrogations. A Franciscan would be perfect for the task—they tended to be meek and snivelly.

  And there would be trials. The witch. The maid. And Lady Cecily would soon find out what it meant to harbor a known heretic. De Bray too. And even Lady Isabella. It was true that Isabella had helped him, and Justus would remember that in the final accounting, but there was something very disturbing about her, and he could not get the image of that unholy mirror out of his mind. No, she would have to be tried as well.

  But he was getting ahead of himself. First, let him bring home his prize.

  The little cottage squatted in the clearing, dark and foreboding, its thatched roof spilling out over the walls like a ragged mop of hair over a glowering brow. As Justus approached, the very air about him grew stale. He could sense the corruption and smell the sweet, cloying scent of death and decay. It was a fitting nest for one who communed with the dead.

  Candlelight flared behind the shutters and winked at him accusingly through the cracks. Somehow she knew he was there. She had sensed his presence. Good. It was for the best. It is not for the servant of God to creep about in the darkness like a common sneak thief, and Justus was keen to confront his nemesis. He strode purposefully toward the cottage, trampling the Michaelmas daisies underfoot, and burst through the door, sending it shuddering against the wattle wall with a gratifying crash.

  And there she was, in the center of the room, dressed only in her shift, a shocked expression on her face, a smoky candle almost falling from the hand that held it.

&nbs
p; Justus shook his hand loose from his sleeve and pointed a bony finger at her. “Stand fast thou foul demon lover. I am come to visit upon you the wrath of the Lord God Almighty.”

  He had thought long and hard about what to say as he had walked through the forest. The words did not come out quite as he had planned, though they were good enough, and he could always work on them a little before recounting the tale. His pose, at least, was suitably heroic. He stood tall and erect, chest puffed out, legs spread wide, feet and staff planted firmly on the ground, head held aloft, eyes blazing with righteous fury, and his finger pointing accusingly at her as he pronounced God’s judgment.

  The impression was rather spoiled though when the door rebounded back sharply from the wall, striking him painfully on the shoulder and rear, causing him to take a staggering step or two to the side. A small detail, he thought, that could reasonably be omitted from the final telling.

  Justus glanced about the room, lit only by the sputtering light from her candle, and found himself quite disappointed with what he saw. It was, in fact, a rather ordinary little cottage, with crumbling wattle walls, a mud-packed floor presently scattered with rushes in an attempt at homeliness, and a central stone hearth over which was suspended an ancient bronze cooking pot. Other than a slightly dank and musty odor, the only thing remarkable about it was the large, wonky table occupying fully one side of the room. There was no mirror, no diabolical statue, no heathen shrine or defaced crucifix. At least not that he could see. Nor was Dame Alice at all what he had imagined.

  He lowered his arm and felt the tension draining out of him.

  “I must say you do not look much like a murderess.”

  “Perhaps that is because I am not.”

  Justus harrumphed. “In truth, I was expecting something a little more … sinister.”

  Justus was not quite sure what he had imaged such a famous sorceress would look like. In his mind he supposed he had pictured her as an old hag crouched over a pagan altar, sacrificing a goat; or perhaps sprawled on the floor, naked limbs entwined in a lascivious embrace with her demon lover. As it was, she stood barefoot, dressed in the kind of long white shift any elegant lady might wear to bed, her hair uncovered and hanging down over her left shoulder in a tight braid secured with what looked to be twists of damascene lace. To all intents and purposes she looked rather more like a common fleece merchant’s wife than a witch. Quite ordinary. And she was hardly threatening, standing there half-naked with her trembling hand clutching her smoky candle. How foolish he had been, allowing his fears to get the better of him. This one would give him no trouble, no trouble at all.

  “Did I not know any better, I might take you for some wealthy burgher’s wife.”

  “I was a wealthy burgher’s wife.”

  Justus harrumphed again. She had probably cast a glamor to hide her true form. She had also likely hidden away the tokens of her devilry. No matter. He was sure a diligent inquiry would reveal more than enough iniquity here to condemn her.

  “Perhaps you were a once a burgher’s wife, but we both know what you have become.”

  Justus smiled smugly, his confidence growing by the second. “I am sorry to have disturbed your rest, but I could not risk you fleeing again.”

  She licked her lips and Justus’s smile widened. She was actually afraid of him. That was good. Very good and very reassuring.

  “You are Friar Justus?”

  Justus could hear the soft Irish brogue. Some people found it charming. To his ear it was grating and common, even more so than the guttural tones of the Northerners.

  “Ah, I see my fame goes before me. Then you must know why I am here. Did you really think you could escape God’s judgment?”

  “You wrong me, sir. I have done nothing of which I should be ashamed or for which God would judge me.”

  Justus hooted derisorily. First would come the denials. It was always the same.

  “You say that you are innocent, madam, and yet you flee from justice.”

  Alice grimaced as though she had tasted something very bitter. “Justice. Is that what you call it? What justice could I expect at the hands of Richard Ledrede. He had already decided my fate. I would receive no justice there. I am an innocent woman who has been terribly wronged. Cast out of her home and forced to flee for her life.”

  “Yet your accomplices all confessed freely to your crimes.”

  “They confessed under torture.” The hand holding the candle was shaking noticeably now, spilling its flickering, smoky light hither and thither. Were she any more afraid, she might drop it altogether.

  “You appear to be afraid of me, dear. Am I so fearsome a sight?”

  She smiled weakly. “Who would not be afraid when faced with an inquisitor such as yourself?”

  Justus knew she was doing her best to be agreeable, but he enjoyed the compliment nevertheless. In truth, he supposed he had been fishing for it. He reminded himself that pride was a sin. Whatever fame or glory he would receive for tonight’s work belonged to God. Justus was but a humble instrument of His power.

  “I am sure if we sit down like reasonable people, I can explain everything to you.” Alice gestured to the table. “I have some wine. Perhaps we might share a cup. It is from the vineyards of Gascony. I am sure you will find it to your liking.”

  “Oh, that’s rich, madam,” he sneered. “Do you take me for a fool that I would accept a cup of wine from the hands of a woman known to have poisoned her husbands. I think not.”

  “Then I could offer you money. I do not have much, but what little I managed to bring with me is yours if you just let me go. I shall never return. You have my word.”

  First come the denials, and now the bribes. Again, how terribly predictable she was. And how prophetic had been his words at that first audience before the lord of the manor when he had declared that Alice Kyteler would not escape God’s judgment. He had not known then that the very woman of whom he spoke was within arm’s reach, and he could not have imagined that it would be he, Friar Justus, who delivered her unto that judgment. Surely God’s grace had filled him that day. He had always known God was saving him for something special and was ashamed now at his moments of weakness when he had begun to despair.

  When he responded, it was with smug satisfaction: “You mistake me. I have given myself to God’s service. Man can have but one master. He cannot serve God and mammon both. No, lady, money is nothing to me.”

  This felt right. Rebuffing her with the word of God. Justus could almost see himself in the chapter house before his brethren describing the scene. He could also see himself summoned to recount events before the archbishop, or even to Avignon to appear before the pope. Yes, why not the pontiff? He made a mental note to scour his bible before then for verses that might further augment the story. That might flesh it out, so to speak. But so far, he had to say he was quite pleased with his performance.

  Alice was casting about nervously.

  “Oh, there is no escape for you, witch, and I am much stronger than I look.”

  And in that moment he felt strong. He felt young, tall, and powerful. There were no more aching bones. Even the persistent catch and scratch at the back of his throat seemed no longer to be such an irritant. What would they say now in Avignon? What would they say at the Dominican house in London? Justus, the one who battled against an invoker of demons and cast her down. The one who matched wits with the Devil’s disciple and overcame her.

  “And, besides,” he added, “my man will be here soon. Rather you deal with me than him. He is a bit of a brute and is unlikely to be as gentle with you as I.”

  Where was that villain anyway? He really ought to have been there by now. Perhaps it was a mistake to leave him with the girl. He was so easily tempted by the lures of the flesh. If Guy had laid his hands on her … well, there was nothing Justus could do about it now.

  Alice lowered the candle and looked up coyly from under her lashes. Her eyes were a remarkable violet, and when she spoke, it was
with a low, honeyed voice as smoky as the candle she was tipping about.

  “Must we really be enemies, Justus? I assure you that I am quite innocent of the charges leveled against me. And perhaps there is something else I have to offer that would be more to your liking. Something that might appeal to a strong, powerful man such as yourself.”

  The light threw into relief the swell of her bosom against the thin linen fabric, and she lifted her chemise with her free hand, showing first a calf, then a knee, and then a flash of pale thigh.

  “I feel sure we could come to some mutually agreeable arrangement, something that might prove pleasing to both of us. I know what men like, and I am sure that you will not be disappointed. If you allow me, if you permit me, I can show you a heaven right here on earth, and in return you can fill me with your … grace. I would be willing to do anything to convince you of my innocence. Truly, … anything.”

  She gave him another sultry look and lifted her skirts just a little higher, giving him a glimpse of the pleasure that awaited him.

  Justus had to grudgingly admit that she was attractive, beautiful even, and for a moment he actually found himself intrigued by the possibilities. He could have her now. She would let him do what he wanted with her. She would even let him beat her if he wished. His eyes wandered slowly up her leg, to her tits, to her mouth, to her eyes, and then he remembered what she was. And he remembered that a beautiful woman in want of discretion was as a gold ring in a pig’s snout.

  “Do not try to tempt me, harlot. I have given myself to God’s service. Your arts and allures have no power over me.”

  “I have no arts, I tell you,” she insisted angrily, letting the chemise fall back to the floor, almost stamping her foot in annoyance. “And any allure I have is only what the good Lord gave to me the day I was born.”