Enveloped in passion, I did not turn quickly enough toward him, fogged as I was by the drug-tainted ale. I heard the Sisters cry out and then I felt his boot take me full in the ribs sending me sprawling next to Rosemunde.
“Why should you have her!” he raged at me. “I’m the one who suffered her tongue and laboured the harder!” He had ripped off the Death’s Head to reveal his own visage even more terrible and contorted with hate. He swayed as he fumbled to draw his sword, falling back a few steps but then managing to yank it from its scabbard. He turned to Rosemunde as he steadied himself, his expression suddenly changing.
“Why, woman?” he pleaded. “Why him? I’m the better man and I can give you what you want! But you take this little shit instead!” He then turned to me with a growl. And he came on, ready to do me murder.
I pulled myself up into a crouch, ready to receive him, when I heard a mighty crack and Christoph’s head and shoulders slumped forward. The Oma brought her staff up again but Christoph was already on the ground and senseless.
I sat there blinking, not believing that he had wanted to take Rosemunde while trying to kill me at the same time.
The Oma nodded to me. “So shall The Winter King strike the Wood Man down once the Seed of Spring is sown!”
Rosemunde pulled the white mantle about her shoulders and I staggered to my feet. Christoph lay sprawled flat upon his face near to the fire.
“And also shall the Wood Man rise again!” the Oma said, extending her arm as I stood up. The Greenwood everlasting!”
It was as if she had foreseen Christoph’s actions before his rage burst forth, cozening him to play the part without even knowing it.
“Daughters!” she said turning to the others again, “Come to me now that we may share the unguent and so then see what others may not!”
And she gathered her red cloak behind her and hobbled to the far side of the fire, followed by her coven.
I stood over Rosemunde and offered my hands to raise her up. She looked up at me and took them in hers but then pulled me down to her. She kissed me full, warming me anew. But the spell had faded already. Christoph was still lying there and I feared he might come around again at any moment.
I was suddenly struck with a heavy self-consciousness. And hard on its heels came Guilt, bearing down like a charging boar to rip my belly. I pulled the green mask from my head and set it on the ground.
My hand cupped Rosemunde’s chin. “You know that I can’t stay here any longer. I do not belong to this place.”
Alarmed, she pushed herself up, shoving me to the side. “Say not such a thing. You have been welcomed here.”
“I must leave.”
“You must not!” she said, grasping and squeezing my hand hard. And only then did I understand that there was more to this demand than just her own wishes.
I arose again and stumbled over to my heap of clothing. Hurriedly I pulled my rig on and struggled to set my feet into my mud-caked boots. Setting my charm down into my damp shirt brought a memory of Anya back to me, and her words of warning.
But Rosemunde had followed me, not accepting my abandonment.
“Wait here!” she said, putting her palm to my chest even as I pulled on my doublet “You have not seen all that I promised. I’ll bring us the ointment.”
I didn’t understand what she spoke of and barely had time to rub my hand over my bruised side before she had returned to me bearing a small earthen vessel that sat in her palm.
She scraped a bit of the stuff out with three fingers, and in the light of the fire it looked like pig grease.
“Let me,” she said, her eyes bewitching me once again. “So you shall finally understand.” And her hand came towards my brow. I reached out and gently held her wrist. But she pushed past my half-hearted protest. “Let me, please.”
The sweet smelling unguent felt cold against my temple and quickly she stroked more upon the other side of my head. She held aloft my arm and rubbed yet more upon my wrist and then so too for my other hand.
“What salve is this?” I asked.
“Come with me to the others,” she said, “closer to the fire.”
The Sisters stood together, arms about one another. Some moaned, others sang softly to themselves. The Oma stood with them, swaying upon her staff, eyes shut tight and lips trembling.
“Sit here,” said Rosemunde to me, pushing me to sit upon the ground that I might watch the Sisters in their worship. Rosemunde knelt down next to me and pulled her white shift closer about her naked form. I had begun to feel cold, even though the fire was but a few steps away. My hands began to tremble and sweat poured from my armpits and forehead.
I reached out and grabbed her arm. “What have you done to me?”
She placed her hand over mine even as I tightened my grasp.
“Be not afraid, Rikard!”
“I’m growing cold.”
“It will pass. Let your mind’s eye guide you.”
I closed my eyes, listening to the droning voices of the witches. Slowly, I began to feel as if I were falling, like the very ground beneath me had come away from my feet. But this sensation changed after a time, and then it seemed that I was floating, free from Earthly bounds. The darkness that was before me began to fall away and bright light filled the air. I could see the forest in all its hidden beauty, the ancient and the new, the green and the grey, the mighty trunks reaching high to the heavens and their roots stretching deep down into the black soil to the bowels of the Earth. I was melting into my surroundings, becoming part of them, drifting through the canopy of green, high above the floor of the Wood. I held my arms out in front of me as I moved; warding boughs that gently gave way as I passed. My nostrils were filled with the pungent scent of moss and crushed leaves and my ears rang with sweet voices that sang of nothing I could comprehend.
I drifted higher and higher. The treetops passed beneath me as I floated, brushing my stomach and thighs. And still I was not frightened. I looked further afield from my vantage and like the owl could see through the night. Below me the Forest spilled down the Kroeteberg, and I along with it. The trees gave way to meadow and streams, lonely copses here and there, and sheep gathered together in peaceful slumber in the moonlit vales that passed underneath me. Indeed, the Moon had become like the Sun, illuminating with such intensity that I could not look at it fully.
And then its silver glow fell upon a landscape I knew well. Broken shells of houses still sent out wafting tendrils of smoke from their jagged rafters, a shattered gun carriage sat forlornly upon the field attended by only the lifeless forms of a team of horses, themselves in grotesque postures. The glittering steel of a thousand broken pike heads and sword blades lay strewn across the pastures of Lütter, twinkling like a mirror of the starry sky above. The lamplight of the town distracted me and then the voices too, the raucous voices of soldiers carousing in their victory.
The Moon seemed to grow larger and larger until I had to look at it, raising my hands before my face. It began to lose its roundness, shifting shape like a phantom and then coalescing to become a robed figure in white. I grew fearful at this gigantic being, slowly coming to see that it was a woman most beautiful, but terrible in aspect.
Fraw Holt saw me then, like a bird on the wing. Her flowing garment spilled larger still as She reached toward me. I watched as this wave of white silk came for me but I could not take my eyes from her terrible face, pale and cold as marble. Her blue eyes and red lips commanded me, her drifting mane of black hair suspended about her head and shoulders like some mermaid of the deep. She was nearly upon me and I still could not move. Her face then began to change, her eyes dulled and sunken, nose hawkish and lips thin. The pure white of Her skin darkened and shriveled with age. She had become the Hag. I covered my own face so as to not look on her hideous form but still I could see her bearing down upon me. I could not cry out, my voice was stolen and soon her open mouth like a great sea beast stood ready to devour me whole. Hag and Beauty were one, and I u
nderstood in that instant that the White Lady was maid and crone, fair and foul, good and evil, forever entwined.
And then I fell. Tumbling over and over, faster and faster I plummeted. I awaited the ground, felled like some pigeon by the hunter’s bow.
I opened my eyes. I was on my back and on the ground, still in the sacred place. It was only just daybreak, the rays of sunlight breaking furtively and low through the trees. Rosemunde was at my side and as she saw me come to my senses, her strong arms lifted me up.
A cup of water was placed to my lips.
“I feared that you might not come back,” she said.
I drank greedily. So strong was my thirst that I quickly drained the cup.
“Did you fly?” Rosemunde asked, a smile on her lips.
I nodded and looked into her face which now appeared tired and older than it had in the firelight. But still, the sight of her quickened my heart. “I saw her, too. The White Lady.”
She smiled at me. “We have all seen Her.”
I slowly arose, my head aching and Rosemunde helped to steady me on my shaky pins. I saw my sword and baldric leaning against a tree and made my way over to it. As I painfully slung it over my shoulder, I turned to face her.
“Was it a spell you cast upon me last night? How else could I have seen what I have seen?”
But she didn’t answer that question. She had other news.
“Your comrade has disappeared. Sometime in the night.”
I had entirely forgotten about Christoph.
“He’s gone? We must find him, now,” I said, my head clearing fast.
“If he’s gone than the better we are all for it,” Rosemunde replied. “Besides, he could be out of the forest by now.”
“You don’t understand,” I told her. “We have to find him before it’s too late. Don’t you know his true nature after all these days?”
“I have seen his footprints over there, going down the mountain but I lost his trail after a while. Surely he wouldn’t be so foolish as to challenge us.”
“Go to the camp,” I told her. “I’ll chase him down.”
And I did not wait to hear her protest before I set off at a run, into the forest and down the Kroeteberg. I ran like a mad fool, headlong and mindless of any trail. Brambles tore at my clothes and I twisted and turned as the trees reached out to bar my way. After a time, breathless, I had to walk. The birdsong was furious, a lively chorus of jeers as I walked and stumbled among the roots. Soon, the forest thinned out, and I picked out a narrow but nonetheless clear footpath that cut across my way. Ancient and rutted, it must be one that ran across the whole of the mountain, from north to south. I followed it downwards, guessing that Christoph, too, might have come this way.
Something made me stop. It had suddenly grown quiet and I now smelled something I had not smelled in many weeks. Against my fear, I left the path and followed where the stench led me. As I rounded a thicket, I saw them.
Two were seated upon the ground, their backs to me. The third lay down as if asleep near their feet. I slowly drew my blade and made my way around to face them.
They were unmoving. And would remain so. I staggered backwards as I saw them close up, for I knew them. Bloated purple hands upon their laps, Hartmann and Callens slumped together in Death. Eyes and lips long taken by the birds and foxes, a cloud of green flies swarmed about them, plundering their swollen flesh. My third comrade lay on his belly, arms tucked beneath him and legs drawn up. Even from the distance that I stood could I spy the worms animating his body.
All their snapsacks and arms were with them, untouched, and Death had struck them down where they sat. But I also saw a drinking flask, opened and on its side, lying between the pair.
And it came to me like a thunderclap. Bread and water gratefully accepted for the journey to Lütter and given out by Rosemunde herself.
“I must leave.” I had said. “You must not!” had come her reply. And it became clear to me then that no one could leave this place.
These poor three had been cruelly betrayed. And so too, had I.
XV
Betrayal October
1626
The Tower
Fifteenth of July, 1645
“YOU SHALL BE hanged, sir! Hanged for a traitor!”
More than an hour had passed since my examination had begun and by now, Sir Thomas Pinchon was pink with exasperation. I had watched the sun’s rays make their slow progress across the wall behind the inquisitors as the afternoon grew old. Yet, for all the cajoling, I would not play his game.
The Secretary scratched at his cheek absently while the quill twirled about in his hand. It had been some time since he had dipped it into the large pewter inkwell that sat in front of him upon the table.
“I have shown you the very letters – in your own hand, sir,” said Pinchon, shaking the leaves of paper like a dog would shake a rabbit. “You have implored Prince Frederick to bring over an army of Danes to fight your own countrymen! Here, sir! It is all here and you are damned by your own hand. And still you defend yourself with wordplay and obstinacy.” Even Obadiah Wharton had just about lost his patience with the affair. “This shall be your only hearing,” he said, fixing me with a stern eye “And that is a fact you should bear most in mind, Colonel. Now give us your reasons why you took these actions, else this Committee will adjourn and name you as non-penitent and deserving of the full retribution of the country.”
I wiped my hand across my face and shifted my aching leg.
“You of all people, Colonel,” I said, “should not be perplexed as to my motives.
Have you not yourself seen the dreadful consequences of this war and the good men that it has consumed so far? Didn’t we both see this – years ago, in Germany, sir. Would you have this Kingdom remain as ripped as the German lands? I did this thing to set our world to balance again. A nation united under one rightful king. I witnessed much misfortune in my youth. So too did you. You know of what I speak.”
Obadiah Wharton shook his head slowly as I spoke. His eye did not mist or soften. “It is a heavy act, sir, even so.”
“I take his words as a confession of guilt, Colonel Wharton,” said Pinchon, motioning to the now attentive Secretary to begin writing.
“Now sir,” he said to me, “Who asked of you this service? Was your hand forced upon this matter?”
The quill pen flicked as the Secretary poised to record my reply.
“No one else,” I said. “It was of my own volition.”
Pinchon eased back into his chair.
“At last, Colonel, we arrive at some truth in this matter.”
My brother was pale. He lowered his head and would not look me in the eye. I knew that he didn’t understand my motives in this and I did not expect him to. He hadn’t understood me since boyhood and I doubted that he ever would.
I turned to the table again. There was nothing else for it: now was the time to make my request. It had come to me in the night, full blown and ripe. The crotchet had sprung forth as I lay between sleep and wakefulness, a time when my heart ruled my brain. That they would ever give their assent to what I was asking was doubtful. But ask them I would. “You believe that I am guilty of base treason against my countrymen. I tell you that I acted to bring an end to this terrible time. This war without an enemy. Those of you who know me know also my heart.”
I looked into the pitiless face of the Puritan, made him lock eyes with mine that he would see my mettle beneath.
“I ask you to let God be my judge. I beg you to grant me trial by combat and let His hand prove who is worthy and who is damned.”
Pinchon’s mouth gaped and his reply became tangled in his throat as he tried to force out a response. His head turned back and forth to his fellow inquisitors in disbelief once the import of my words sank in. The others began to jabber and exclaim until Pinchon slammed his hand on the table.
“Have you lost your reason, sir? Do you think I am King Arthur? Would you battle with sword and sh
ield on Tower Green like some lunatic paladin?”
A ripple of laughter erupted from the others but Pinchon did not smile even at his own cleverness.
“I am a soldier who has served long and well,” I said, not yielding to his scorn, “and I ask you… again, gentlemen, that you grant me God’s judgment by the sword.” Pinchon jabbed a finger at me, his anger rising up anew.
“You’ve wasted our time here long enough, sirrah. As you have seen fit to spit on the good mercy that this Committee has offered, I can see only the rope for you. It’s a pity you did not avail yourself of the chance to make amends.”
“I have never sought mercy, Sir Thomas” I said quietly.
“Then you will not be disappointed.” And he noisily pushed back his chair as a signal to the others.
Yet one person in the room did then speak out.
“There is precedence in the law for what he asks, Sir Thomas. And it must be given due consideration.”
It was William. He stood behind me and I could feel his hands grasp the back of the chair on which I sat.
Pinchon blinked at the unexpected challenge.
“Such an affair was granted by the King not fifteen years ago,” said my brother. “It is Colonel Treadwell’s right that his request be heard.”
Pinchon stuttered again. “I say it is an outrageous request, Sir William. And our good King is otherwise engaged at this moment. The law has no need of such archaic nonsense.”
Obadiah Wharton had not said a word during all this. But now, he stood up next to Pinchon, his face set hard. He looked straight at me.
“He is a soldier and deserves the honour that he requests. I, for one, would not begrudge this of him. I say the Colonel should be granted his trial by blood.” Major Nichols now stood.
“I am in concordance with Colonel Wharton. The gentleman and his house deserve the right to defend their honour under the Lord’s justice.”
Outnumbered, Pinchon fell silent for a moment. He shuffled at his papers, shaking his head. This canting Roundhead had now been called to accounts. Who could speak out against God’s Own judgment?
The Ravens’ Banquet Page 20