Father Stephen stayed quiet, his chest and back aching with the weight he was carrying. The sounds were of their animals breathing and the rushing of the stream. It seemed like all of the animals of the woods had disappeared, as if the wizard had bade them to run away and not witness what was about to occur. He, too, crossed himself. He was sure earlier of what he was to do and what would happen, but he was no fool. He felt the taste of fear, a taste that was even stronger than when he was in the muddy fields of France, fighting for his life against another swordsman.
He spoke up. “I will go first, Gawain. Please do follow me, but do not be reckless or bold. This is my matter, not yours. I will approach the wizard and face him down, no matter what magic or fiery staff he may possess. God rides with us both, this I promise. Be not afraid.”
Gawain pulled out his sword and laid it across the spine of his horse. “I am afraid, this I do admit. But I will follow you, Father. Do lead on.”
Father Stephen pulled on the reins, and Job reluctantly stepped into the water. Job was not one to hesitate, no matter how stubborn he could be, and he wondered if perhaps the poor dumb beast could sense the danger that was ahead. The water wet his feet and legs but then he was on the other side, in Lindsay Woods. He turned and saw Gawain splashing across, to join him. Father Stephen smiled at him, then reached into his robes, and took out a small crucifix.
He started saying the Our Father as he went up the hill. Pater noster c’tui es in coelis. … As he approached the top of the hill, the fear that had been there earlier returned with a vengeance, like a mid-winter storm. An old man with a white beard was at the top of the hill, clad in robes of red and black, holding up his hand as to halt them both. The man was tall, quite tall, possibly the tallest man he had ever seen. In his other hand, he held a long staff of wood and metal. Just like Gawain had said.
The wizard of Lindsay Woods.
Father Stephen raised up his crucifix and pressed on.
IT WAS THE WIZARD who spoke first. “Get ye away from here. These are my woods, my home. Ye have no right here. Get away before I kill thee all.”
His donkey, Job, seemed to start at the sounds of the old man. His voice was raspy and low, as if he had shouted for many days as a young lad.
Father Stephen swallowed, noting how dry his mouth had become. He raised up his crucifix. “I bid you to leave, old man.
These woods belong to Lord Henry. You have no right of ownership. Let us pass and then be on your way, before any harm comes to you.“
The wizard laughed. “A priest, are ye? I have traveled long and far in this world, priest, to learn that your religion is no more the true religion than any other. There are many places and people who have never heard of you and your God. Ye have no power over me. So leave, now, damn ye, before I smite ye down.”
He held up the crucifix again and spurred on Job, who was breathing hard and struggling against the reins. But move on the donkey did, and Father Stephen spoke aloud, “Move away, wizard, before harm befalls you. I command you in the name of God and Lord Henry to depart this place forever.”
As he spoke, he saw something on a rock near the wizard’s lance. Something was smoldering there, a wisp of smoke rising up. The wizard cackled again and said, “I warned ye, and now ye shall die!”
The old man moved quickly for one so aged, for he grasped some smoldering stick and brought it up in his left hand. With his right hand he held out the staff of metal and wood, and Father Stephen saw another V-shaped stick there as well, now holding up the staff. He spurred on Job and then the wizard cackled again, started shouting in a strange tongue, and he brought the smoking stick against the side of the staff.
What happened next happened almost as fast as the blink of an eye, for there was a loud thunderclap, like a sudden appearance of a rainstorm, and the end of the staff spew forth a cloud of smoke and fire, and then something hammered at his chest, and Father Stephen fell to the ground, unable to breathe, unable to move, unable even to pray.
EVERYTHING WAS GRAY, FOR what seemed to be a long time. Then Father Stephen coughed and sat up. His chest throbbed and ached, and before him were two figures. He wiped at his eyes and saw Gawain standing over the figure of the wizard, cursing, and raising up his sword. Father Stephen shouted, “No, do not kill him, I forbid it!”
With sword raised, Gawain turned to him in astonishment. “By all the saints… Father, you are still alive?”
He grabbed at his chest and stumbled to his feet. Job and Shadow were nowhere to be found. “I am. I may be in some pain, but I am alive. Pray to come over here and assist me.”
Gawain came to him as Father Stephen removed his outer robe, and Gawain again looked at him in amazement. Underneath the cloak Father Stephen wore a dull-colored breastplate, a piece of armor he had not worn since returning from France during those cold and bloody days, and which had been stored in the trunk back at the manor. The armor still fit him well and was in good shape, save for the deep dent now in the center. Though now aching and dizzy, he felt good at having guessed right about the true nature of the wizard’s power. He had no doubt there were witches and wizards in this world. But he found it easier to believe in the actions of man. He undid the straps and let the armor fall to the ground, and then strode uneasily over to the wizard.
Gawain followed, saying, “When he smote you down, Father, I had to come and strike at him, no matter what the consequences. Bad enough that he killed the young Thomas in my presence. I could not allow him to kill you as well without replying in kind.”
Father Stephen knelt down to the old man. His staff was on the ground, some distance away. There was a stench in the air, of decay and sulfur. Blood was on the wizard’s lips, and soiled the side of his robe. The robe had also fallen across the man’s thin legs, and Father Stephen noted the small stilts he had been standing on. Stilts, hidden by his robes, and which made him that much taller.
“He has been injured,” Father Stephen said.
“Aye,” Gawain said. “I struck him a blow after you fell, and I was to strike again before you stopped me. Yet I believe my first blow may be enough.”
The wizard’s eyes fluttered open, and he coughed, and smiled again. “The strong man is right, he is, and I fear I am mortally injured.”
Father Stephen bent closer. “Who are you, then, old man? A friend or relative?”
“A friend or relative of who, do you ask?”
“Of Lord Mullen, the previous owner of these woods. The tale of the Wizard of Lindsay Woods came to pass only after these woods were taken from him and given to Lord Henry. Not before. The wizard who supposedly haunted these woods has only been here for a short while. So, who are you, then?”
Another cough. “I am his older brother, I am. William.”
Gawain shook his head. “That cannot be true. William is believed dead. He left for one of the last Holy Crusades, years ago.”
The old man cackled. “That is true, that is true, and here I am, back among our family estates, though everyone thought I had died, years ago. I did go on the Holy Crusade, and the places I went and the things I saw… such poor peasants as yourself would never believe what I saw, what I did.”
Father Stephen eyed the wizard’s staff. “Is that where you got your staff, the one that makes so much noise and propels a stone with such speed that it can kill?”
“No, not stone,” William said, his voice growing softer. “A piece of soft metal. I stole the staff from a merchant from Cathay, where I served as a slave for years. I also stole some of the soft metal and a bag of the powder that ignites so easily… Cathay, a place where the men and the women dress in such luxuries, yet their eyes are like cats… Cathay…”
Gawain said, “So why were you here, playing at being a wizard?”
Father Stephen answered him. “So the woods would be thought to be haunted. So that all travelers would avoid it. So that sometime in the future, Lord Mullen could get it back from Lord Henry, at a pittance. Am I right, William?”<
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A slow nod, as blood started trickling down into his beard. “You are a smart one, priest. A smart one. You outfoxed me by wearing that armor under your cloak… If I had put more of the fire powder inside the lance, you might not have lived…”
“But I did, William, I did.”
Gawain started to say something but Father Stephen held up his hand, as the old man murmured something. Father Stephen bent over and said, “Please speak again, William.”
A soft, breathy voice. “I meant not what I said earlier, in insulting you, Father. Would you… would you… give me the Last Rites? Please?”
Father Stephen nodded. “Of course.”
And as he began the prayers, the old man died.
THEY BURIED HIM IN the woods, and when they went out into the open, Gawain picked up the staff and examined it. “Now I can see how it works,” he said. “There is a small hole here at the base, where that small stick that was burning was placed. It ignited the powder inside and propelled that metal that killed young Thomas and knocked you from Job.”
Gawain looked up. “Yonder is the bag that contains the fire powder. I must bring these back to Lord Henry. His alchemist can determine what is in the powder, and his smithy can see how this fire lance was made. Imagine how powerful his knights will be once they have weapons such as these.”
Father Stephen picked up the small bag that contained a black, gritty powder, and lumps of metal. “You are right, of course, Gawain. May I examine the staff, as well?”
Gawain handed over the tube of metal and wood, which felt heavy. There were elaborate carvings along the wooden base, showing dragons and other creatures. He looked up at Gawain and said, “My friend, is that your horse, coming down the hill?”
When Gawain turned Father Stephen tossed the bag with the powder into the stream, and then smashed the fire staff once and then twice against the near boulder. After the metal and wood had been bent and broken, and before the bellowing Gawain could get any closer, he tossed the destroyed lance into the raging waters of the stream as well.
“Father!” Gawain shouted. “What in the name of the Blessed Mary and the Saints did you do that for? Do you know what you’ve just done?”
Father Stephen’s chest ached and his throat still was dry, but he pressed on. “Earlier today, what did my brother tell you, before we left?”
Gawain glared at him. “I cannot say.”
“Ah, you cannot say, but I can certainly guess. He told you that if the wizard was just a man, and nothing else, that after I vanquished him you should find out what his weapon was and bring it back to him. Am I right?”
Gawain still looked angry. “The old man was right. You are a smart one. But why, Father?”
Father Stephen felt his chest, felt the tender area that had been hurt by that hurtling piece of metal. “Why? You need to ask me that question, why? It’s a weapon of barbarism, that is why. You see how much blood men armed only with swords and bows spill on this good earth, day in and day out. Can you imagine the slaughter that can occur, if each knight, if each man of arms, can kill with such a weapon as this staff? Who can kill from afar? What that can mean to the villages and people of this land?”
Gawain said, “That may be true, Father, but you saw with your own eyes. This weapon exists. It is from Cathay. One of these days it will come back to this island, will come back to men such as Lord Henry.”
Father Stephen nodded, and went over and picked up his robe. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps it will come next year, perhaps next century. And perhaps in that time, men on this island will finally come to listen to the words of God, learn to love each other, and put down the tools of killing.”
Gawain sighed and bent down to pick up his sword. “That day may never come, Father.”
“True, but only if we let it happen,” Father Stephen said. “Only if we let it happen, and I intend to do my best not to see it happen. That is my calling. To work for my people and to work for peace.”
LATER, AFTER THEY HAD recovered both Shadow and Job and began riding out of Lindsay Woods, Gawain said, “What do you intend to tell Lord Henry?”
“Me?” Father Stephen said. “I intend to say nothing, and to return to my parish. It is up to you to tell him what happened this day, that we were successful in killing the wizard and freeing Lindsay Woods for his lordship. Two-thirds to him, of course, and one-third to my parish.”
Gawain said, “He will complain.”
“Aye, he will complain, but he will proceed. He must, to preserve his name among his peers. And it will also be up to you, Gawain, on what you will say—or won’t say—about the fire staff.”
The knight laughed. “Say? I will say nothing, Father, since I have nothing to show. Who would believe me, that a weapon exists that would allow a serf or slave to kill a knight from afar, without even touching him?”
As they rode away, the image of the old man William bothered him for a while, the older brother, trying to protect the lands of his younger brother. That is all. A sad thing, to die in defense of one’s brother, after having traveled across Europe and to Cathay. Yet noble. Father Stephen imagined it must be a pleasurable thing, to have such a brother.
Still, a sad thing, all the same, but Father Stephen soon thought of other things, as well. A new roof for the church. More land for himself, to grow more food to help those families who nearly starved each year. More peace for the people of the village of Bromley, and of course, a future—and if God willed it, not too far off—when men of arms turned their swords into plowshares, so that the villages would no longer burn and that the children would no longer cry.
God willing, he would live long enough to see that day.
Improvements
Kristine Kathryn Rusch
When the strange woman appeared, Maude was in the buttery, speaking with the clerk of the kitchen about his latest round of purchases. He went to market too often, she thought, and was too extravagant for the types of meals he produced. She would, if he did not modify his expenditures, have to fire him.
He would be the first servant she fired since her husband died.
The very idea filled her with dread. She had run the household since her marriage ten years before, but her husband had handled the money, the hiring and firing of servants, and the overall management of the large estate.
Now she managed it in trust for their only child, a son who was still in swaddling. Still, some duties made her hands shake.
The clerk of the kitchen was a large florid man whom her husband had hired shortly before the baby was born. She had had misgivings about him then but had been too tired to speak of them. Then her husband became ill, the baby had been born, and her husband had died, all within half a year’s time. She felt as if she woke up only recently to find herself in a life that only resembled the one she had once had.
The buttery was a small room off the kitchen. Beer and candles sat on the shelves. The stairs from the beer cellar descended down one side, and the main door of the buttery opened into the hall. She had sent the yeoman of the buttery—he was such a gossip—into the garden for a brief rest. Not that he needed one. His services were rarely used this early in the day.
The clerk of the kitchen was explaining, in his condescending voice, how some foods tasted poorly without the proper ingredients. She had her hands folded inside her sleeves, her wimple pinching her chin. She had been listening to him for too long, but she didn’t know how to make him stop.
And that was when they heard the screams, coming from the kitchen.
The clerk looked at her as if he had never heard such sounds before. She pushed past him into the Hall, through the Court, and into the kitchen.
It stank of grease and smoke and roasting meat. Even though no one was yet cooking the evening meal, the smell from last night’s lingered.
The kitchen staff was huddled near the outside door. One of the kitchen maids had her hands over her mouth. She was doubled over away from the door, as if she had seen som
ething horrible.
Maude hurried past the work table to the door. The servants parted as they saw her, all but the chief cook who blocked her way with his large body.
“Milady,” he said. “This is not for a lady to see.”
“Move aside,” she said.
He stared at her a moment, his blue eyes red-streaked from smoke, his lips thin and pursed as if he had tasted something bad. Then he stepped away from the door.
A woman lay on the flagstones leading into the garden. Her ragged clothes were blood-covered as were her face and hair. When she saw Maude, she raised a thin hand as if beseeching her.
“We shall take care of this, Milady,” the chief cook said. “It is nothing that should bother you.”
But they hadn’t taken care of it so far, had they? Besides, how could she leave a creature in such obvious distress?
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