by Don Dewey
As he groped her, she finished slicing the bonds that held her hands together behind her. “Any more from you and I’ll scream so loud the hanging crowd will all hear.”
“So what?”
“Do you really want to live in this town with them all wondering if you’re perverted?” The question was one that would cause anyone who lived in or near Salem to pale. He let her go and started her back on route to the gallows.
As they walked past the fire that was kept burning all the time now, and up the steps to the gallows, she moved a hand to the slit, not quite a pocket, that held her pouch of powder. She tossed off the rope from her hands, shoved the guard down the steps, and threw the bag of powder into the fire. It was as impressive as she knew it would be. It was not so much an explosion as it was a rush of smoke and sparks. The smoke spread instantly, shocking the small crowd, and hid her as she headed for the route she’d chosen. Only the man leading her to her expected death was close enough to see anything, and he’d struggled to his feet and grasped for her, ripping her dress nearly off. She flung her star into his throat, turning to run instead of watching the blood spray from his jugular as he dropped to his knees, still clutching her torn dress. By the time the smoke began to clear she was gone, the witnesses were having terrible eye trouble, and a couple of fresh guards were rushing up to take charge.
Later, when questioned by the magistrate, a guard, concerned for his job, offered the rags of her dress as evidence that Mary Parker had been hanged. He stated that her body had turned to ash but the dress was untouched. She’d been a witch, after all.
It didn’t need to make sense. Often these things did not make sense. They just needed to be believed to become truth to those deciding what the truth was at that point in time. Nobody there could admit she escaped. They declared that her death was by hanging in September of 1692, and continued in their series of trials.
Only the guard, handling the razor sharp star carefully, remembering how he found it embedded in the throat of Mary’s dead guard, knew the whole truth, and he wasn’t about to admit to anything. That woman was clever, and she was still alive somewhere.
Chapter 16
Session 5
Another morning, and Kenneth had gotten up, dressed, and walked to the room he’d grudgingly begun to get used to. He walked with the slow steps of a man walking his last mile down the hallway to his lethal injection. His host started right away. “Yesterday’s tales were long, and I had business to tend to, so I let you sleep in. Today I’ll tell you of another man, one who was born somewhere around 750 AD. He, as all of us, worked many trades, learned many skills, and moved about to hide his great age. He is a wonderful study in humanity, or perhaps, the new humanity. His name is Karl, and he became the Duke of Normandy, and King of England.”
Startled, Kenneth looked up sharply, and his host saw the surprise on his face. “Yes Kenneth, some Pures have been notable people. You’re surprised?”
“Ah, surprised only because it seems unlikely that they could keep a lid on this kind of information, if they were in positions like King.” Kenneth felt the need to carefully challenge this strange man who held him captive. “I can’t believe, and logic would not allow for this to be true of people in high places. They can’t just disappear to start new lives elsewhere. I’m sorry, but I don’t buy it.”
“Yes, well, whether or not you choose to believe my tale makes it no less true. We’ve all learned how to move on, even from prestigious, powerful roles in government or finance. Have you never heard of the war criminals from Nazi Germany? They were sought by the world, yet established new identities and lived, most of them, for decades before being discovered? Some were never uncovered; they had new identities.”
Seeing a flicker of realization on Kenneth’s face, his host pressed on. “You see, already your logic crumbles in the face of a reality you didn’t want to acknowledge. Ah Kenneth, you have a fighting spirit, hidden deeply beneath your civilized exterior, but you yield too easily.
“The length of our lives requires some anonymity, as I’m sure you’ll realize as I tell this tale. Karl was, and is, unique among the Pures.” His Host gave him a broad smile.
“To understand who the Normans were, let me take you back to 911 AD. Karl was on the order of 160 years old or so by the time a large Viking chief named Rollo accepted the offer of a large area of Northern France from the king of France, Charles II, as part of a peace treaty. Rollo and his ‘North Men’ settled in this area of northern France, later known as Normandy. Over the years the North Men were eventually called Normans. Rollo became the first Duke of Normandy and over the next hundred years or so the Normans adopted the French language and culture, or at least a close facsimile thereof.”
“Wait!” Kenneth couldn’t stand it. Without thinking it through he broke into his host’s narrative. “I know this history.”
That evoked a laugh from the host. “But not very accurately I’d wager. Shut up and listen to the real history, or you’ll never know it.”
Chapter 17
Karl: Duke, King, and Killer
On January 5th, 1066,
Edward the Confessor,
King of England,
Expired.
To say the King of England expired was simply a gracious way of saying he died. Nature and politics both abhor a vacuum, so history shows that the very next day the Witan Council elected Harold Godwin, Earl of Essex, who also happened to be Edward’s brother-in-law, to succeed him. King Harold’s problems started the moment he was crowned. The coronation was the worst thing that could have happened to him, as many politically prestigious positions were wont to be. He wouldn’t wear the crown long.
In Normandy, Duke William didn’t agree with the voting of the Witan, and was quite vexed that they didn’t recognize his abilities and see his claim to the throne as paramount. William claimed that the recently deceased King Edward had promised the crown of England to him. Actually, he was more than a little vexed, so a very annoyed William prepared to invade England and take what he believed should have been his.
Karl, having been known as Karl to many over several identities, was now known as William, and he was a pragmatist. He believed that what worked out best, by definition, was the best thing. He always included the caveat that it needed to work for him personally. For a long, long time Karl had been doing just what he wanted to do for himself, and as William he wasn’t about to change his style. His motivation was purely selfish. The world was his, and he would be denied nothing. He and his bloodthirsty brethren were getting ready to invade the weak, though more cultured people to the south. He turned to his second and barked marching orders at him. “Finish getting the men ready today; we’re going to war tomorrow.” One day later he had thousands of Norman soldiers on their way to invade Britain. They, as he, had no higher goals. It was all about conquest and power. Other portions of his armies would meet him on the way, conscripts and such.
The Vikings that had settled in Normandy with Rollo hadn’t adjusted well to being farmers and merchants. Their children and grandchildren loved the idea of taking what they wanted, as their Viking forefathers had done. Motivating them to invade England hadn’t been all that hard to do.
The first village they encountered in what William considered, “enemy terrain,” was a very simple affair. It essentially consisted of hovels around what seemed to be the center of town, just an area with no buildings. There they demonstrated who and what they were. The village men were killed, overwhelmed by William’s far greater force. Had the villagers been at all prepared for war, they would have recognized immediately that this wasn’t the proper time or place, if there ever was such a thing, and they’d have run away. With both greater numbers and brutality on his side, William and his Normans came in and devastated the village. The men were killed. The women were raped repeatedly, and afterwards their throats were cut and they were left for the scavengers. William’s troops seemed to have no humanity about them, perhaps mimicking th
eir leader.
After they’d destroyed several villages his warriors were weary. William’s second came to him concerned for the men. “We need to wait here a few days to rest and recover.” This was a public discussion, and there were a fair number of people loitering about, watching and listening. Without any warning at all, with a reaction time that human vision could barely follow, William took his well-worn, but well-stropped battle ax and hewed the man’s head from his shoulders.
As the severed head rolled to a stop in the mud, William turned to his followers, and with his deep voice yelled loudly, brandishing his ax while blood was still dripping from its blade, screaming, “Who else would argue with me? Who else would choose to lead our people instead of me? If you, then step forth and die now!” He shook his head as he issued the challenge, throwing his blonde mane back and forth as if emphasizing his words.
As in the many times before when William had offered this challenge, nobody stepped up. So they marched on, a well-armed and bloodthirsty rabble, swarming like locusts across village after village.
When they came to fortified cities, William treated his rabble more like the army it could have been had he cared. But on one occasion it didn’t go well. This time the English longbows were ready for them. As the Normans neared the fortifications, a whisper went down the line of English long-bowmen, “Don’t fire until the commander gives the word.” The commander knew that William was the threat, and that he led his troops personally. He was the primary target, so they waited.
Again William raised his battle ax, screamed his command to charge, and his troops sprang forward at his command. They rushed the Brits in their solid positions, and when the English leader gave the command to fire, a funnel of arrows arrowed as they approached William’s position. One of the first long yew arrows that struck was the one that took down William. The shaft completely impaled him, with the feathered end in front of his chest and the wicked, hand beaten blade protruding from his back. William dropped to his knees, and panic rippled through his ranks. His battle companion and first lieutenant, face and arms still showing traces of blood from earlier in the campaign, stopped his charge and dropped to his leader’s side. “Duke William, we’ll get you off the field!” He turned to call for a field medic and bearers, but William stopped him.
No, I’ll be all right. Give me a minute!” He gasped out his words.
The first lieutenant was one upon whom he placed great trust. He couldn’t argue with his Duke, nor could he believe William would be all right soon, if ever. Yet Torrence LeBeau, his first lieutenant and probably the closest thing William had to a friend, stayed kneeling there on the battlefield as his troops all around dropped from the devastating rain of arrows from the English longbows. A circle of soldiers surrounded them, shields held edge to edge to protect their leader. Amazingly William felt more stable in just minutes, then steady, and finally strong, or at least strong enough.
His army had been terrified he was dying. The opposing army had been looking at fairly certain defeat until one of their long-bowmen had dropped him. Now those closest to him saw him improving. Emotions were high on the field, and were ricocheting back and forth.
William acted on his resolve to become the King of England. “Break the arrow and remove it!” He gritted his teeth from the pain.
“My lord, you’ll bleed to death if I do.”
“Do it. Now!” There was no quarter in an argument with a man such as William, so LeBeau snapped the head off the arrow and pulled it from his leader’s chest. Blood ran and soaked William’s jacket, ran down his chest and pooled on his legs and thighs. Yet he slowly levered himself up, took up his ax and waved his rapidly shrinking force onward. They were truly inspired by this, and charged with renewed strength and determination. Some ran before him with shields, knowing he mustn’t fall again. Though many died, William led his troops to victory that day.
“I decree that my first English castle will be built on this very spot to commemorate this great victory!” He was ecstatic. This was his finest hour. He pushed on to become England’s King, though knowing he was already being called King William the Bastard did his mood no favors. He built that castle later, and became very fond of castles, mostly because he’d lived in the woods and on the road most of his life. So castle building was what he was known for during his reign, that, and having to constantly try to keep his throne.
He married and had three sons. The eldest was a trial to him and the youngest was a blessing. The third, his middle son, was average and uninteresting to William, so he was pretty well ignored. Robert was his eldest son, and William appointed him to remain in Normandy most of the time and rule in his stead. William’s youngest son stayed with him, and was more English than Norman. The middle son fell in one of the many engagements they had as they attempted to bring a united rule to the country they had conquered. William, or Karl, was fairly ambivalent about his son’s death. The announcement of it barely received a grunt and a nod from him when it was reported. He did pause for a long while, as everyone around him remained silent, concerned about his reaction to this news. He was actually thinking about his own longevity and that apparently this son did not share it. Too bad, but I‘ve two others.
He shipped his youngest off to be raised by a noble family, far from him. He never gave the boy another thought until they sent him back three years later.
But his oldest boy, Robert, though a rogue in many ways, had real potential.
No one, not even his sons, knew that William, or Karl as he still thought of himself on occasion, was his own great-great grandfather. He’d been part of the army of Rollo in 911 as his fourth identity, and when he had again lived longer than a man should live, he arranged his “death” and took a new identity, staying close to the throne. Over the next one hundred fifty years and three more identities, he became William the Bastard. For reasons not obvious then but obvious to us, the bastard part of it was hard to deny. His parentage was so far in the distant past he could hardly prove his birth and lineage. So he did what he did so well: he lied about it.
His eldest son, Robert, destined to be ruler of Normandy as its Duke, was a trial to his father. He hit an impasse in his physical maturation process as he left his teen years. After he hit his early twenties he continued to look the same. He recognized that his father had great vitality for his age, and really didn’t look his age, so he assumed he came by this honestly. Later he found out that he did actually come by it naturally.
William’s youngest son, Artur, had come home to him after three years living with a noble family many hours ride away, and rode with his father on every outing. He was a vibrant youth, and full of life. He was with William when they were ambushed by a fair sized group of malcontents from Normandy. William kept scanning them to see if Robert was among them, but he was not. Fighting down to just a few men left on each side of this vicious conflict, William and his men were on the ground, while a few of their assailants were still horsed. One came at William with a pike set to skewer him, and in an act of self preservation that carried a high price, William did the only thing that would keep the pike from destroying his heart: he moved Artur into its path, using the boy’s body as a shield. All of this took just a moment, a heartbeat. But in that moment his continued heartbeat was assured, and Artur’s was stopped. The death of his son gave William a clear shot at the lancer, knocking him from his horse with his sword. After dispatching him, William realized what he’d done. He grieved the death of this son, perhaps more because he caused the death in a shameful act of cowardice.
Upon returning to his castle, William determined to know about Robert, his last surviving son. Was he a Pure, or was he just very healthy, as all of William’s children had been? He hadn’t known a son who was a Pure. He didn’t even know that he wanted that; it was a thing he’d given up on, and one that could jeopardize his own long life. Robert had given him more than a fair share of trouble, and for that Karl decided he had to test his son and know for certa
in. One day as the two of them argued again over some stupid thing, Karl ordered his men at arms out. The great hall’s massive door was closed, and Robert began to seriously wonder about his future. His father came back to him and spoke to him quietly and evenly. “Son,” with an attempted smile, “let’s you and me figure some things out.” He placed his left hand on Robert’s shoulder. Thinking it was a sign of affection, the affection he’d always desired from his father but never received, Robert put his own hand on his father’s hand, there on his shoulder.
Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately for Robert, he didn’t know his father as well as he thought. With the speed of inhuman reflexes and many, many years of practice, with one smooth motion William whipped out his knife and slashed Robert, cutting deeply into his arm as the blade passed through, removing his dagger as quickly. As Robert stumbled in horror, staring at his father, then at his arm, William deftly took his son’s dagger from its sheath and tossed it across the room. If Robert could manage anything at this point, which was doubtful, William saw no point in getting stabbed himself. Robert continued to stare at his sword arm as blood spurted from it, hanging uselessly at his side.
His father said, “Robert, it will pass. Be my son, and let your body prove it is what I think it is.”
“Are you mad? You’ve crippled me. Go ahead old man, kill me now. Don’t make me live like this. If I don’t die from blood loss I’ll die slowly from the silent death. If you ever cared for me at all father, kill me swiftly!”
William just growled at him. “Shut up, stupid boy. You know not of what you speak. Your brother died today while saving my life. You need to know if you have my abilities. Do you have any idea how old I am? Well?” At this point he slapped Robert hard enough to lay him the rest of the way down, “Do you?”