Caught Red-Handed

by Denise Domning

  "And so it came to pass, and Herla won the hand of a king's daughter. On the day of his wedding the Pan appeared with a great retinue. So many were there that Herla feared he'd fail in his duty as a good host. But the Pan had brought his own foodstuffs, and even his own service, and enough servants that Herla's own folk had naught to do.

  "At the end of the celebrations, the Pan tells Herla that he himself will be wed in a year's time, and that Herla should attend. Herla is to come to the crossroads where they first met, and the Pan will guide his party into his realm.

  "And so it comes to pass. The Pan leads Herla and his men into his realm. There they say for three days, enjoying the wedding celebrations. When Herla's party prepares to depart, the Pan gives Herla a dog to be carried on horseback out of his realm. He warns that no man should return to earth before the dog dismounts.

  "When they are once again under the sun, and within the boundaries of Herla's holdings, riding upon this very road," Brother Edmund pointed to the Street, "they meet a man walking toward them. Although the man is strangely dressed, Herla asks him for news of his queen."

  Here, Edmund paused to look from Faucon to Will and back again. "This man was like Father Godin, speaking a tongue that Herla can barely comprehend. That is because the man is a Saxon, not a Briton," he explained, then continued with his story.

  "With much effort Herla understands this rustic is telling him that Herla is now a king of ancient legend. Herla, the man himself is told, disappeared with all his retainers and left his new bride to rule his realm.

  "This so astonishes the great king that he almost dismounts. He remembers the Pan's warning just in time. The dog yet sits unmoving in front of him in the saddle. But another of his men is not so fortunate. He dismounts. The instant his feet touch the earth he dissolves into dust.

  "So you see," Edmund finished, "Herla must ride for all time, or for as long as he wishes to retain his life, doing so because he sinned against our Lord when he dared to have dealings with pagan things. Harlequin, however, marches with his army to deliver rightful punishment to the wicked dead, no doubt to right his own stained record with our Lord."

  "That's not the story I've been told," Alf again dared to correct. "Our tale says the little king from beneath the earth arrives at Herla's wedding bearing a great number of gifts, even though he's warned Herla he'll stay for but one night and leave before the sunrise. But when Herla comes to celebrate the little king's wedding, he comes almost empty-handed. This insults his host, who is a magical being. The little king curses Herla with eternal life for as long as he rides. And, at least according to my mother, Herla, like Harlequin, does gather the newly-dead to him. Those who have witnessed the Herlething's mad ride—"

  It was Will's turn to interrupt. He looked over his shoulder at Alf. "Herlething?"

  "It's the English word for Herla and his retainers as one," the commoner offered, then continued. "Those who have witnessed the Herlething ride often recognize their own recently-deceased kin among the horsemen."

  Brother Edmund made an impatient noise. He also shifted to look behind him at Alf, although his gaze never actually fell upon the man. "And you've seen the ancient king as he rides?" he asked, his tone haughty.

  "I have not," Alf admitted.

  The monk sniffed, sitting straighter atop his little mount. "Then perhaps we should leave the details to those who know better."

  Despite himself, the corners of Faucon's mouth twitched. Such was his life at the moment, filled with both Brother Edmund's snobbishness and his unwitting kindnesses, with Alf's grounded good sense, and with Will's unpredictable rages.

  The sun had reached the horizon behind them, for their shadows now stretched far ahead of them on the Street. This when he gauged that at their slow pace, they weren't quite halfway to Nuneaton. It would be full dark before they reached the convent.

  "Sir, did you hear that?" Alf asked sharply, pulling his piebald mount to a sudden stop.

  As Will and Brother Edmund rode on, Faucon reined Legate to a halt. Frowning in concentration, he listened. Faint but clear, he caught a child's panicked cry.

  "Huh, there must be some settlement nearby," Brother Edmund called back, yet allowing his little mount to proceed.

  Faucon hesitated. Most likely the monk was correct, and this was nothing. But when he tried to urge Legate forward the sadness in his soul— and a selfish need to make something in his world right— wouldn't allow it.

  He scanned the landscape in the direction from which the call had come. For a furlong or so the earth was flat and grassy, then rose slowly for another furlong into a slight hill. Trees and thick brush cluttered the hilltop. There was no sign of habitation, no fields, no smoke curling into the sky.

  "Wait here," he told the others as he kicked his courser into motion.

  An instant later, Will brought Legate's brother alongside Faucon's mount. Again, the child freed a wordless cry. This time there was no doubting that the cry had come from the hilltop. Together, Faucon and Will shifted their horses to follow the sound.

  "I will not remove my gown! You'll take me back this very moment!" shouted the yet-distant girl. She spoke in perfect French, her words filled with all the command given to one who might one day direct her own servants.

  That had Faucon glancing at Will. But his brother had already put his heels to his horse, urging him to greater speed. Above them, the sky was now the deep blue given to ebbing twilight, shadows closing slowly around them as their horses huffed in exertion.

  They were close enough now that Faucon caught the voice of the one to whom the girl spoke. Husky, seeming too deep to be that of a woman while not deep enough to be male. Although he made out none of the words, the tone made it clear this one sought to cajole.

  "I don't believe you," the girl retorted loudly, her commanding tone tinged with fear.

  "But you must believe," her captor replied, if this was a captor. "Our Lord has spoken to me. He has showed me that you are to come serve Him in His holy house. You'll not go alone. I'll also make this journey—"

  The speaker broke off as their horses crashed into the thick brush at the top of the hill. "Where are you?" Faucon called.

  "Here, here!" the girl shouted in return, then gave another panicked cry that ended in a gasp.

  He and Will rode into a glade ringed by trees, among them several aged oaks. Branches loomed over them, whether trapping or protecting Faucon wasn't certain. Tied to a bush was a donkey laden with baskets. It sidled and huffed as they entered.

  At the center of the glade stood a nun. She was tall, taller than Faucon, and broad-shouldered enough that she seemed manly. The nun had a simple white shift over one thick arm, while the other trapped the girl close to her. Despite that, her captive scratched and kicked.

  It was this bold persistence Faucon recognized when he hadn't remembered her voice. "Lady Marianne?" he called in astonishment.

  Then his gaze returned to the white shift over the Churchwoman's arm. His eyes narrowed as long-stored pieces suddenly shifted and fell into horrifying place. "What is this?" he growled, dismounting. "You'll release the Lady Marianne immediately, Sister."

  This cannot be! Never have I been interrupted during a sacrifice. I choose my sites with care to prevent just that. Then disbelief dies into something more horrifying. For these knights to not only find us, but to also know the little lady can only mean one thing. Our Lord has refused my last sacrifice.

  Frozen in despair, I watch the knight come to earth. He wears his helmet over his chain mail coif. I can see naught of his face save the shadowed hollows of his eyes, the rise of his cheekbones, and his bearded jaw.

  "Sir Faucon," the child cries as she writhes against me, seeking to break my hold. But I cannot let her go. To do so is to acknowledge that my heavenly Father has damned me for all eternity. Is this the price to be paid for my failure? But I have not yet failed Him! All I need do is complete the ritual.

  The knight stops just beyond my reach and
draws his sword. His stance promising death. I know better. To kill one avowed to God is the worst of all sins, and his life will be forfeit.

  "You," he says to me, "you are the one who stayed in the church at Haselor. You took that child. You are also the one who left that murdered lass to the ravens outside of Prior Holston, as well as those I'm told came before her, before my arrival here."

  Across the glade, the second knight's horse frets and turns. The rider's gaze never moves from me. The child in my embrace squeals. She thrashes and kicks. I bear her assault without flinching, yet swimming in a sea of disbelief.

  How can this man know what I've done? For the first time today I consider that I have been careless, and also unwary, having committed those errors long before I knew to be cautious. Such is the action of Dies Mala.

  "Our Lord accepted those girls as His. I but do His bidding," I tell the warriors with little hope they can ever understand. Such men are murderous brutes with little in the way of education, especially in religious matters.

  "You will give her to me," the knight in front of me commands.

  "She is no longer mine to give," I tell him. "I have promised her to Our Lord and He has accepted her."

  "You'll release her now," he again commands, taking a threatening step toward me.

  "Kneel with me, child," I tell the little lady, forcing her down in front of me. I settle on the grass behind her and bow my head. "We must pray for our heavenly Father to clear the way for our journey."

  Pain explodes on the side of my face. My nose spurts blood. Gasping, I topple backward, taking the child with me as I fall. Then the knight is beside me. He grabs the arm I hold around the little lady, then bends my fingers in the wrong direction. I cry out in pain. Against my will, my arm weakens. I cry out again as the child is ripped from my hold.

  The knight backs slowly away from me, his sword lowered. He cradles Lady Marianne on his left side. She sobs into his mail-clad shoulder, her arms and legs wrapped around him.

  I free a heartbroken cry at the sight. His touch has already extinguished the light that revealed her as the image of our Holy Mother. Now all I see is her degraded future, her ruin and her ultimate damnation.

  "You have no right to take her from our Lord. He has chosen her for something much greater," I plead with the armed man, wiping the blood from my mouth and nose as I struggle to sit up. "She is the embodiment of holy purity. Your touch befouls her."

  "Will," the knight says to the second knight, "bring Brother Edmund here to me and swiftly so."

  In an instant, the mounted man is gone, crashing back through the brush. Now there is only one! Desperation has me shoving myself to my feet. I am taller than he, and surely stronger. I am stronger than many men.

  I throw myself at him, reaching for what is rightfully mine. His shoulder slams into my midsection, driving all the air from my lungs. My feet leave the earth. I fly back and fall to earth with such force that inner darkness threatens to consume me.

  Gasping and gagging, I struggle to hold onto consciousness. But across the glade the knight has moved to his horse. I watch helplessly as he sheathes his sword, still holding the little lady. Prying free of her hold, despite her fearful whine, he sets my precious sacrifice into his saddle.

  I lift myself on quivering arms. My stomach seeks to empty. "Stop," I gasp out.

  "I'll be back for you," the knight warns me, mounting behind the child, rearranging her until she sits crossway in his lap.

  Does he think I will stay when he takes what now belongs to our Lord, something that I need more than life itself? Driving myself to my feet, I stumble weakly after him. A gust of cold air sweeps past me. It's strong enough to rattle branches and send a shower of dry, dead leaves down upon me.

  The little beast of burden that carried the precious lady tosses his head and stamps his feet. He turns and turns again, yanking at his knotted reins. I push past him and into the brush. I cannot fail. I must have my sacrifice.

  "Who is she?" Faucon asked, even though he already knew that answer. If she'd done what he believed, she was a murderess many times over, one who deserved to die, but wouldn't. Her life belonged to the Church and the Church would jealously guard her life. If this was the sort of justice their Lord required, He was no sort of God at all.

  "Sister Cellaress from the convent," came Marianne's broken response. She yet clung close to him, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist despite his mail tunic. "I thought she was my friend. But she isn't. She told me that I must die to please our Lord. I didn't want to die," the little lady sniveled.

  Faucon closed his eyes with her words. His remembered image of the child with the slit throat on that grassy hillside shifted until it was this child he saw in the other's place. Just then, a blast of frigid air battered at him. He hunched his shoulders against it, allowing his cloak to fall forward and shield the child in his lap.

  Letting Legate find his own way through the brush, he kept his arm tight around Lady Miriam's daughter. All thought of waiting in the glade with the nun until Edmund arrived ended when the big woman raced at him. It wasn't possible to protect the child while fending off a murdering nun. It wouldn't matter to the Church what the sister had done, only that he'd killed a Churchwoman.

  "Pery!" Will shouted.

  Faucon frowned when he found his brother. Rather than racing to fetch Brother Edmund, Will had stopped at the base of this hill, at the edge of the grassy sweep of land between the hill and the Street. With the moon long since risen and now more than half full, his brother's mail gleamed in the darkness. Nuncio's white hide was almost as bright.

  Wondering why Will had stopped, Faucon looked toward the Street, only to have his gaze catch on two shadowy riders making their way toward Will. Alf and Brother Edmund, riding at a pace the monk's little mount rarely achieved.

  Behind him, brush crashed. Twigs snapped. He looked over his shoulder expecting the nun, but it was the donkey. It exploded out of the foliage, raced past Legate, then turned in the direction of Nuneaton, no doubt to find its own way home.

  The nun followed more slowly, limping. Her arm was clutched to her midsection. In the moonlight, the blood from his blow looked black where it stained her face and white wimple.

  "You must give her to me," the nun pleaded. Now thick with tears, her husky voice sounded even more masculine. "I can save her soul. She's yet pure. Let me send her to our Lord while she remains untouched. I promise she'll stand with the angels as is her right."

  "I don't want to stand with the angels. I want Maman," Lady Marianne whimpered and pressed her head more closely to his chest.

  "Pery!" Will shouted again, his tone urgent.

  Faucon kicked Legate into a walk, aiming his mount toward Will. He didn't bother looking to see if the nun was yet behind him. She would follow. He had what she wanted.

  Dried grasses rustled. Then she was beside him, her hand on his foot in the stirrup. Faucon gave Legate the signal. Just as he'd been taught, the courser turned and came at the woman in threat. Although no destrier, he could kill with the right blow. She gave a startled cry and released Faucon's foot.

  Then Legate stopped on his own. His head lifted, his attention shifting into the distance beyond the nun. His ears pricked. When he snorted, the sound was filled with question. His hide quivered, then he began to snort and sidle, trying to turn to the south as if he intended to follow the escaping donkey. Frowning in surprise, Faucon calmed his courser.

  A piercing series of whistles shattered the still air. It was Will, giving their signal for imminent danger. Startled, Faucon looked toward where Will had been, but his brother, Alf, and Edmund were riding up the hill at all speed.

  Wondering what drove them, Faucon looked back toward the Street. "Holy Mother of God," he breathed.

  As sheer as a rich woman's wimple, ghostly riders began to appear out of nothingness, their mounts stepping onto the Street, walking out onto that raised path as if their hooves were substance rather than shadow. He wat
ched, incapable of moving, beyond thinking.

  The riders— some bare-chested, others seeming fully clothed— sat astride. Their saddles lacked stirrups and the feet of the mounted men dangled below the bellies of their mounts. Every man carried an oval shield only slightly smaller than Faucon's own kite-shaped one. For weapons he saw spears and short swords belted to every side. Some had bows slung across their shoulders. Although a few wore metal helmets most did not. Those who didn't had hair so long that most wore it tied back the way a woman might.

  Despite their uncanny transparency, he made out features on some of their faces. A chill raced up his spine. Although the army moved in an eerie and complete silence, individual riders shifted and turned, clearly speaking to one another. One man's mouth opened wide as he laughed soundlessly.

  "Why is it so quiet?" Lady Marianne asked in a bare whisper. Rising out of her crouch against him, she craned her neck. But Faucon's cloak blocked her view of the Street.

  Legate snorted, then shifted and kicked. There was the unmistakable crack of breaking bone. The nun screamed, the sound echoing in the silence. She fell to the ground, thrashing in agony.

  In the road, the revenant army froze instantly. They didn't pause the way a living army halted, horses bunching and shifting as each man found his mount a comfortable place to stand. Every horse simply stopped moving, mid-stride, every man in whatever position he was in with that breath.

  Once again, a frigid stream of air flowed over Faucon. This was no natural gust, nor was it winter's chill he felt in its touch. This was like the breath of some ancient god, one as cold and eternal as the grave.

  The icy air curled around him, twisting and writhing. He gagged as it seemed to reach into his chest. Lady Marianne gasped at the same instant. Behind him, the nun's cries abruptly ceased.

  Faucon tried to shift in his saddle to see what she might now intend. Instead, like the army, he was locked in position, incapable of movement.