by Troy A Hill
“He’s worried about Osbert,” I said.
“We all are. Osbert is an unknown,” Bleddyn said and pointed out the window towards the gallows. “That’s part of why I’ve asked the men to assemble my little theatre for today. I expect Osbert to ask for trial by combat. His reputation will force him to.” He glanced at me, or, rather, at my sword.
“Until you came to us,” he added, “I’d seen no one match Emlyn in a fight.”
“You wonder,” I said, “if there is one, there might be another?”
He nodded.
“I detected noting unnatural about Osbert,” I said, and kept my voice quiet so it wouldn’t carry. “But I don’t believe him to be like Ruadh or me. The Guild wouldn’t use someone like us. They’d torture then kill us, since they couldn’t change us.”
“Have you time today,” Bleddyn asked Gwen, “to take messages to Lord Meirionnydd and Lord Mechain?”
“And to my brother?” Rhian added. “Rhos needs to be included.” I had forgotten that Rhian was the daughter of the old Lord of Rhos. His eldest son had inherited the title a few years before I arrived in Britain.
“What do you have in mind?” Gwen responded.
“Now is the time to drive the Guild as far from Britain as possible,” Bleddyn said. His tone was serious. “If we begin with these four cantrefi, then send word to the others, we should find enough agreement among the lords to make movement in at least the northern part of Cymru difficult for them.”
“Did I tell you how happy I am that you’re now my brother?” I said with a grin.
“Not this morning,” he said. “But you can make it up to me, sister, and get me another cup of mead.”
I laughed, folded my sewing, and took the mug he held out. Rhian stood, too.
“I’ll fetch writing materials for the letters,” she said.
8
A Timely Arrival
The guard at the gates shouted and waved a flag. They had spotted Sawyl and his party in the distance. The people of Caer Penllyn and the village below turned out to watch the procession.
Sawyl and his guards marched the prisoners in through the fort’s gates. I stayed in the keep where Bleddyn sat carving, but stood where I could see through one of the large, unshuttered windows. The prisoners stumbled along behind the horses. A few of the villagers that lined the road raised their fists and yelled at the men. Bleddyn had to have heard the commotion, but merely continued to slice and chip away at his block of wood.
The prisoner’s hands were tied together in front, except the one whose arm I had broken. His good arm was bound to the splinted arm, each wrist tied to an elbow across his chest. Pedr kept the man’s line slack. He had no good way to protect himself in a fall. The clothes and faces of the other three were mud-stained, evidence of many tumbles along the way.
Two of them walked with their heads down, careful of where they stepped and ignoring the crowd. Osbert, behind Sawyl’s horse, held his eyes up defiantly. At every shout, he stopped and glared until the rope jerk him along. He spat at the crowd in disgust.
As they crested the hill, the prisoners’ eyes fell upon the gallows. Four nooses hung from the crossbar and four stools stood under the ropes. Three of the prisoners paled. Osbert spat again, towards the keep.
Emlyn ordered the guards to make the four prisoners kneel in the mud of the courtyard, facing the gallows. Haf and Sawyl exchanged smiles. The large guard nodded to Emlyn, then headed toward the keep. Emlyn waved the kitchen girls out toward the prisoners.
The girls gave each man a wooden cup, which they held in their bond hands. Another girl followed and scooped water out of a bucket to fill the cups. When they got to the man with the broken arm, Haf held the cup for him as he drank. Osbert kept his eyes on the girls. Even from here, I could see the rage simmer in his eyes.
When they’d had their fill, Haf went round again and collected the cups. When she came to Osbert, he threw it as best he could with his bound hands into the mud. Haf upended what water remained in the other three mugs on his head.
I giggled. Sawyl walked in, brushing the mud of the road from his clothing. He joined me at the window. Osbert sputtered and pulled his hands back as if to strike Haf, but a guard cuffed him in the back of the head with the pommel of his sword.
“That one has been trouble,” Sawyl said. “Tried to chew through his ropes. We had to tie him to a tree with his hands above his head. Every time we stopped, he demanded a sword to prove he was our better.” The large guardsman shook his head.
“The other three may have sense. Osbert, though, he talked the entire way about challenging Lord Emlyn.” Sawyl said and shook his head. “That one is trouble.”
The abbot and Ruadh walked between the prisoners and talked with each of them. Abbot Heilyn, though serious, brought a smile to each of the first three faces as they conversed. Osbert, however, jerked away from the abbot’s friendly touch on his shoulder.
I sensed Gwen back in Caer Penllyn. Her magical trail moved from the grove to the keep. A moment later, she entered.
“Your letters have been received and replied to,” she reported to Bleddyn. “Mechain, Meirionnydd, and Rhos agree. The Witch Hunter’s Guild are no longer welcome in their lands.”
Bleddyn nodded without taking his eyes off his work. He slid his knife into the wood and dropped a curl of wood shaving on his lap. It joined the ever-growing pile. The slide of his knife was the loudest sound in a room that had gone silent. We waited for him to move. The prisoners were here. It was time for the trial.
Bleddyn lifted his carving to show me. “I do believe it’s a hen,” he said.
“Definitely a chicken,” I said, with a grin at Abbot Heilyn. “At least it keeps him out of trouble and away from bears.”
Bleddyn glared at me, then winked. “Well, then. We have four of your Witcher friends to try.” He placed the carving in his basket and rose from his chair.
With Lord and Lady Penllyn in the lead, we gathered before the main doors. Bleddyn leaned on his stick but tried to hide the discomfort from his wounds. He saw me watch him and he shook his head.
“Damn bear got me on my good hip. Now I limp on both sides.”
Behind Bleddyn and Rhian, Abbot Heilyn waited—or rather, Bishop Heilyn. He wore his pectoral cross over his robe and carried his bishop’s staff, carved with pointed Celtic swirls. Behind him stood Cadoc and Enid, then Seren and Dewi. Gwen and I brought up the rear. Gwen had a whispered conversation with Enid, then Dewi, passing each a rolled document. They both glanced at the writing, then nodded.
“I know my brother,” Bishop Heilyn said, and passed the rolled letter over to Ruadh. “He’s probably got half of his warband standing, ready to ride to Penllyn and assist with the trial, if you were to ask. He’s not fond of people who would harm his niece or nephew.”
Two of Penllyn’s guards opened the doors, and the Lord and Lady Penllyn stepped out into the grey, overcast daylight. They took the chairs in the centre of the porch. The rest of us stood to either side.
Bleddyn motioned Rhian to take her seat before he eased himself down into his chair. He kept the walking stick in his hands as he gazed out at the prisoners.
As the rest of us sat, Cadoc glanced towards the main gate.
“Isn’t that convenient?” he said with an exasperated sigh. Two familiar riders rode through the gates. Another score of armed guards waited outside.
“Have you sent anyone out to find them?” Bleddyn asked. Cadoc shook his head.
“I wanted to wait until after we finished with the trials.”
The Witch Hunter Seeker and his assistant had arrived. They were not happy.
9
Trials
“Seeker Bechard,” Bleddyn said without rising. “What business brings you here?”
“You have the sword-captain of my Guild and three of his men. I demand their release,” the Seeker said. His demeanour was one of condescension. Bleddyn’s eyes narrowed.
“We were abou
t to ascertain their fates with trial here. You are welcome to speak on their behalf.”
“They are members of the Guild and should be released to church authority.”
“Seeker Bechard,” Heilyn said as he rose. He held his bishop’s staff in his left hand. It provided a counterpoint to the shining silver of the Guild symbol, which sat atop the staff the Seeker’s assistant, Lecerf, carried. “The church has recognised Penllyn’s right to try these men, as they directed their crimes at people under his care.”
“He claims authority that belongs to the Guild, your grace, because his own daughter was the victim.” Bechard sounded scornful now. Lecerf huddled in the background as his master argued.
“I said at our first meeting,” Heilyn replied, “that, given cause, I would give any of your men to Lord Penllyn for judgement. And I have done exactly that.” He grinned cunningly. “But if you prefer, once Lord Penllyn has delivered his verdict, I may open a church trial as well.”
“Rome shall hear of this, you pompous oaf,” Bechard spat.
“Be careful, Seeker Bechard,” Heilyn said, his voice hard. “Not only are you a long way from Rome, but the Bishop of Rome carries little authority in these lands.”
Bechard’s eyes narrowed. His lips tightened as though he were holding back a scolding for an underling. He didn’t have the powerbase he had back in Europe. Here, the Bishop had the authority. And he realized it. The tension between the two men almost crackled like lightning.
At last, Bechard gave a slight bow, his face noncommittal. He was apparently smart enough to see the reality of his position.
“Very well,” Lord Penllyn groused, as if shaking off an annoying flea. “Let’s get on with this trial. What crimes are these men charged with?”
Sawyl’s voice boomed out from behind the accused, who still knelt in the mud. “Doing harm unto the person of Lady Seren ferch Bleddyn, wife of Lord Dewi ap Einion.”
“Did you witness this harm yourself?” Bleddyn asked.
“Only the undoing, milord.” He gestured my way. “Lady Mair was there before I, and she ordered the torturous device be removed as I drew close enough to see.” He pointed at Osbert. “This man, milord, stood behind Lady Seren, who had been tied to a table, and her hand was pressed in a device he controlled. When Lady Mair ordered him to undo the screws, Lady Seren screamed in agony and passed out.”
“Is this true?” Bleddyn turned to me. Before I could answer, Osbert spat again.
“We were on the guild’s business in the church’s name,” he snarled. “You have no right to try us.” Osbert was defiant even now. I wasn’t sure if he expected Bechard and his old toady to pull out a miracle, or if he was just that stupid.
“Seeker Bechard,” Bleddyn said, “I ordered you to not conduct Guild business in Penllyn, yet this man does not deny they put people to torment and question in the name of your guild. What say you?”
“The girl’s a witch!” Osbert screamed before Bechard could open his mouth. “She was drawing the devil’s symbols!”
“Five lashes for disrespect,” Bleddyn said, and flicked his hand as though he waved away an insect. Sawyl and another guard grabbed the man and hoisted him to his feet. Osbert refused to walk and continued to scream “She is a witch!” as they dragged him towards the log frame.
Cadoc's men had set a metal hook in one of the uprights. A guard looped a length of rope around the cord that tied Osbert’s wrists and ran it over the hook. He raised the Witch Hunter to his toes. Osbert turned so his face was towards Bechard, who sat on his horse with a stoic expression. Emlyn ran a knife down the back of the man’s tunic to split it open. Although he looked bulky and muscular when clothed, his middle years were affecting the guild’s sword-captain. His head spun enough to glare at Bleddyn. Osbert’s belly showed signs of spreading, though not to the girth of my favourite bishop.
Another guard stepped behind Osbert. Long strips of leather dangled from a wooden handle in the guard’s hand. The first blow smacked against the Witcher’s unprotected back with a snap.
“WITCH!” he screamed.
Another blow, and another cry of “WITCH!” He repeated it with each lash.
Bleddyn gestured to the guards. They slackened the line enough for Osbert to drop to his knees in the mud. His hands remained above his head.
“Milord,” a voice called from among the prisoners. The Guilder whose arm I had broken looked pleadingly toward the porch.
Bleddyn motioned again. The guards pulled him to his feet. He winced in pain as they jostled his broken arm. Once he was upright he bowed towards the Lord and Lady.
“Your name, man.” Bleddyn said.
“Mikkel ap Meurig.” He raised his eyes. “Of Elfael, milord.”
“You have something to say, Mikkel of Elfael?”
“Only to confirm what your man said, milord,” he replied. “We was dispatched to Mechain and Penllyn’s border after we heard rumours of an army of the dead. We’d just entered the village when we saw the girl scrawling marks on the entry stones of a house.” His eyes shifted to Seren. Anguish haunted his gaze.
“Osbert,” he nodded at the guild's sword captain, “he commanded that we capture her and hold her for witchcraft. I tried to explain, milord, that those was just Celtic signs… to give blessings on the homes. My ma made them all the time around our house. She said they drew the attention of the saints and helped them hear our prayers.” He shook his head, his eyes darting to Seren again as he bit his lip.
“Osbert would listen to none of that,” Mikkel continued. “He got out the screws and questioned her. I didn’t want no part of that, I swear… but…” He shifted his eyes to Seren.
“I’m sorry, milady. The captain is fierce, he is. I didn’t know how to make him stop.”
“Why did you attack Lady Mair, then?” Bleddyn asked.
“My apologies, milord,” Mikkel said. I kept my face unemotional. “When the lady entered," he nodded towards me, "and dropped the others, I could only think to protect us from an attacker.” He glanced down at his arm. “I am not good with swords, and I paid the price. I should have stood my ground against Osbert.”
“I’d have thrashed you, you scum,” Osbert yelled. The guard jerked the rope. Osbert yelped, then glared at the guard.
“Mikkel of Elfael, I thank you for your honesty today,” Bleddyn said.
“You pathetic weakling,” Osbert snarled. He winced as the guard jerked his rope. “I knew you would be trouble. No stomach for doing what’s right.”
Bleddyn motioned toward the other two Witchers, still on their knees in the mud.
“Aye,” one of them said. His eyes down “He did not want to be a part. We didn’t either milord.”
I glanced at Seeker Bechard. He and his retainer kept their lips tight and said nothing. Even counting their men outside the gates, they were outnumbered here. Bleddyn’s sly grin, however, showed me he only believed the first part of the Guilder’s confirmation about Mikkel.
“Then each of you shall receive ten lashes and give service to Penllyn for three years.”
Mikkel nodded, his eyes on Bleddyn. The other two kept their eyes down.
“I demand a trial by combat!” Osbert yelled. “The girl is a witch and I will prove it upon her body.”
“Coward,” Bleddyn said. His voice had gone cold. “You harmed my daughter’s hand beyond her ability to hold a weapon. Yet you dare challenge that she hold a blade against you?”
“Then her accomplice,” Osbert snarled, nodding at me. “The devil’s behind her sword. I can kill her as easily to prove they are both witches.”
Emlyn’s voice cut through the hushed silence.
“Then you wish to die today.”
10
An Angel
The Witch Hunter paid him no heed. Instead, he jerked his bound hands down. The guards let the rope go slack. Osbert held his arms towards Emlyn, but glared at me. “Give me my fair trial.”
“Emlyn should be the one to face him,
” Bleddyn whispered. “This does not have to be your fight.”
“I made it my fight when I kicked the door open,” I said, then shifted my gaze to Emlyn. I could see the desire burn in his eyes. He wanted to take on Osbert. But the guild’s sword captain had challenged me. I let Emlyn make the call. After a beat, he nodded. Knife still in hand, he turned and sliced through Osbert’s bonds.
“Perhaps,” Osbert said as he stood, his gaze on Emlyn, “once I kill the witch, you and I can dance.”
“Do the dead dance?” Emlyn asked, his expression and tone flat, emotionless. A laugh escaped my lips. Not because of his threat to Osbert. But because Emlyn knew I was dead.
I chanced a glance at Seeker Bechard. He sat on his horse stoically, no expression on his face. His eyes were on Osbert, and not on me right then. I wondered what the Seeker was thinking. How easily his sword captain, the renowned Osbert would defeat a mere woman like me?
Osbert had already made a name for himself in the other kingdoms. I would not underestimate him. What if he were as skilled as Emlyn and I? Worse yet, the sun was up. That meant I would tire easily unless I pulled from my demon’s magic. But I couldn’t. The Witch Hunters were watching. Our victory over them today could turn to utter defeat if they learned that Penllyn was harbouring a Child of the Night. I was not the only one who stood to lose. The Guild might leave for the day, but they would be back with an army and crush Penllyn under their heel. What would become of Gwen? Of Ruadh? Of all the people I loved?
Osbert shrugged out of his ripped tunic and grimaced at the pain from his lashes. He flexed his fingers and shook his arms to loosen his muscles. He only wore breeches with a loin cloth tied across his crotch and leather boots. Despite the spread of age that was beginning to settle on his waist, his arms and legs were lean and muscular, similar to Emlyn.
“Is ‘Peace’ the word used to acknowledge defeat?” I asked Emlyn, but loud enough for Osbert to hear as well.