TO KILL A WITCH

HOLY WARRIORS BOOK 1

CHRISTOPHER PATTERSON

RABBIT HOLE PUBLISHING

For my parents for encouraging me to learn about the past so that I might have a brighter future

Fable is more historical than fact, because fact tells us about one man and fable tells us about a million men

G.K. CHESTERTON

CONTENTS

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Before You Go!

Afterword

About the Author

Also by Christopher Patterson

To Kill A Witch

Copyright © 2019 Christopher Patterson. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by nay means without the written permission of the publisher.

Rabbit Hole Publishing

Tucson, Arizona, 85710 USA

FOREWORD

Excerpt from the Introduction to The English and the Normans: Ethnic Hostility, Assimilation, and Identity 1066-c.1220 by Hugh M. Thomas, Professor of History, University of Miami

On Christmas Day, 1066, large crowds of English and Normans gathered for the coronation of William the Conqueror. Though William had gained his crown by force, he claimed to be the legitimate successor of Edward the Confessor, and sought to have that claim reinforced and symbolized by a traditional coronation, which included a call for acclamation and assent from the people gathered. The call was duly read out, both in French and English, and both Normans and English responded dutifully. At that point, however, William’s carefully planned propaganda coup met disaster. A nervous guard of Norman knights posted outside Westminster Abbey, unfamiliar with the traditional ceremony and unable to understand what the English were shouting, mistook the ceremonial acclamation for the beginnings of an attack and reacted by setting fire to the houses surrounding the abbey.

William’s coronation was indeed a powerful symbol, but not of the unity he hoped to achieve. Instead, it showed the cultural and linguistic gulf between his Continental followers and English subjects and foreshadowed the renewed hostility and warfare to come. In the years following the coronation revolt followed upon revolt and the Normans countered with savage reprisals, including the deliberate devastation of wide swaths of countryside. Hostility dominated the relationship between the ethnic groups and even shattered the tranquility of monastic life when the new Norman abbot of Glastonbury sought to introduce Continental innovations in the liturgy and his monks reacted forcefully. The abbot sent in troops, and during the resulting massacre, in the words of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, ‘blood ran from the altar onto the steps and from the steps onto the floor.’ Peace between the Norman and English aristocrats proved unattainable and within twenty years of the conquest the Normans had slaughtered, exiled, or dispossessed almost all of the most powerful pre-conquest landholders. The bitterness between the English and Normans lingered well into the twelfth century.

I would like to personally thank Dr. Thomas for all of the wonderful research he has done in regards to the Norman Conquest and English-Norman relations during this post-conquest time period. I would also like to thank him for giving me permission to use this short excerpt from his work.

CHAPTER 1

“A LL THOSE FLOWERS, all that green grass. By the time the sun sets, it will be burnt, trampled, and stained with blood.”

Thaddeus Christopoulos sat astride his large, gray horse, staring from his plateau vantage, watching a plain of knee-high, green grass and little purple, white, and yellow flowers.

“That is war,” Gunnar Sigurdsson replied.

“Too much war,” Thaddeus said.

Through a sidelong glance, he saw Gunnar shrug his shoulders.

“Don’t act as if it doesn’t wear on you,” Thaddeus accused.

“What?” Gunnar asked. Thaddeus could hear the insincerity in his voice.

“Don’t act as if all this death doesn’t wear you down like a mail shirt.”

“I don’t feel like my mail weighs me down at all,” Gunnar replied. “Are you getting weak, my friend?”

Thaddeus turned his head and saw Gunnar smiling at him.

“You know what I mean.”

Gunnar’s smile disappeared.

“This is life,” he said, “and we know enough about that.”

“Curse this life,” Thaddeus muttered.

“As the Lord continues to call us to fight evil,” Gunnar added, “we will see even more death. The world seems more open than ever to the depravity of man.”

Thaddeus’s horse snorted.

“Easy Polemistes,” he said, patting the horse’s strong neck.

Each muscle rippled every time the animal shifted its weight from one leg to the other. Those muscles had carried Thaddeus into too many battles to count. Those muscles had carried Thaddeus away from too many battles to count. Those muscles had saved his life.

“This land, the Romans called it Britannia,” Thaddeus said, “reminds me of my home in Laconia. It’s a shame war has ruined it.”

“Aye,” Gunnar agreed. He patted the neck of his own warhorse, Sigurd—named after his father—its fur a golden blond and its hair the white of high, wispy clouds. “I have always found the land of the Anglo-Saxons a beautiful place. Rich soil. Clean water. Fresh air. Good farming. Decent people.”

“That is what drew your people here three hundred years ago,” Thaddeus said.

“People think we Swedes and our cousins, the Danes, came here for gold and silver,” Gunnar replied. “In reality, it was the farmland.”

“The monks of Lindisfarne might disagree with you,” Asaf Segal said.

“They did eventually soften the hearts of we Norsemen,” Gunnar said. “Many of us found Christ in this land.”

Gunnar looked at Asaf slumped in the saddle of his horse, Phillip, and facing away from the field on which they looked. He had looked grumpier than ever, ever since the Lord had called them to England.

“Conquest is always messy,” Gunnar said, “and full of atrocities. If I could take back the things …”

“We all feel the same,” Thaddeus interrupted, shaking his head. “We would all take back our sins if we could.”

“Well, my people were the ones being conquered,” Asaf said, crossing his arms.

“Oh, come now,” Gunnar said. “The Jews and the Hebrews conquered plenty of people. Your people always act as if you are the ones being stepped on.”

“And sitting like that you look like a petulant child, Asaf,” Thaddeus added.

Asaf groaned and shook his head, but he did uncross his arms.

“Tin,” Thaddeus said. “That is why the Romans came. Tin and taxes. I guess our reasoning was less noble. The poor Celts … they never had a chance.”

“The conquered were the conquerors once,” Gunnar said. “That is the way of the world. The Angles and Jutes and Saxons once conquered the Celts and Bretons, and now the Normans have conquered them. One day, someone will no doubt conquer the Normans.”

Thaddeus nodded and again looked out over the field below them.

“This place seems so enchanting,” Thaddeus said. “More mysterious than a land of fairies and dragons.”

Gunnar grunted, and Thaddeus knew his friend had that squinty-eyed, arched eyebrow look he gave when he was amused but irritated at the same time.

“You look ridiculous,” Thaddeus said.

“You don’t even know how I look.”

“I know too well,” Thaddeus replied. “It looks like two huge, yellow worms are crawling across your forehead.”

“My eyebrows look that big?”

Thaddeus couldn’t help laughing as Gunnar touched his brows and felt the bushy, blond hair there. He turned back to the field.

“More exotic than Egypt, Persia, the Valley of the Indus River, and the lands even farther east, the lands of the silkworm. Yet this place is more brutal than the north and more holy than the Holy Land.”

“Have we turned to sacrilege now?” Asaf said, his voice hard. Thaddeus glanced over his shoulder, then back to the field below.

A Saxon force had assembled below—a hundred or so men—all carrying thin spears and round, wooden shields. Most had long swords at their hips, some axes, and a few of them had shirts of iron mail.

“Only six horse,” said Thaddeus, shaking his head. From the corner of his eye, he could see Gunnar nodding.

“Poor bastards.”

The sound of marching echoed over the plain, and Thaddeus looked to his left—the south—and within moments, the sun gleamed off the iron, conical helms of two hundred Norman soldiers.

“They don’t march like the north men from whom they descend, do they?” Thaddeus asked.

“No, they certainly don’t,” Gunnar replied, and Thaddeus thought he could hear a smile in the other man’s voice. Gunnar leaned forward, squinting. “I wonder whose coat of arms it is?”

Each one of the Norman’s kite shields bore blue and yellow checkers and interspersed among the troops were long lances bearing a banner with the same yellow and blue checkers.

“I don’t know,” Thaddeus said. “But they have fifty cavalry.”

The marching Normans looked like a single, gleaming mass, with their cloth hauberks studded with iron, their iron helms, and their kite shields.

“God and Christ and all the saints help those poor bastards,” Gunnar said. “This is going to be a slaughter.”

“Aye, that it is,” Thaddeus agreed.

“What are these Saxons thinking?” Gunnar asked. “They’ve lost before they begin.”

“Would you so willingly give up your land?” Thaddeus asked.

“Maybe not,” Gunnar said, “but they have clearly lost. Why throw away your life?”

“It will take another hundred years for these people to relent,” Thaddeus said, and then added, “maybe even longer.”

“Is this why the Lord has called us to England?” Gunnar asked. “To help the Saxons defeat the Normans?”

Thaddeus shook his head.

“No. The vision the Lord gave me was one of a woman—dark-haired and beautiful,” Thaddeus explained. “She held a place of power—a noblewoman maybe. She commanded men. She had someone of importance in chains and, as my dream ended, I saw a road lined with the crucified.”

“I wish the Lord were a little clearer about these missions He sends us on,” Asaf said, turning his horse to stand alongside Thaddeus.

“A bold statement coming from a priest,” Gunnar said with a smile.

“Former priest,” Asaf said with a quick wave of his hand.

“Aren’t you going to say a prayer for these poor Christian men about to die?” Gunnar asked.

“Just you leave me alone,” Asaf replied. His voice sounded hard, angry.

“Is it not your duty, as a priest, to pray for these poor souls and their absolution before they meet our Lord Christ?” Gunnar teased.

Thaddeus could sense the smile spreading across Gunnar’s face.

“They can pray for their own absolution,” Asaf said. “Besides, they don’t give a rat’s fart what I do for them.”

“Now, now, my friend of the cloth.” Gunnar laughed. “You would let good men go to their deaths with uncertain souls?”

“Christ’s bones, would you leave me be? You know I don’t believe they need anything but a silent prayer to the Lord God and a right heart to meet Him in Heaven. And they certainly wouldn’t want a damned defrocked cleric praying for their souls. They’d be better off letting some Moorish turd pray for them.”

“Asaf,” Thaddeus chastised. “You go too far.”

Asaf sighed hard.

“So, do we just sit here and watch?” Gunnar asked.

“Would you have us get involved?” Thaddeus replied. “You wish us to ride down there and join the fight? You believe this is the thing for which the Lord has called us?”

Gunnar shrugged his huge shoulders before he swatted at a fly.

“Why England?” Asaf asked. “Avignon is beautiful this time of the year.

Thaddeus felt the brush of grey-black horsehair as Polemistes flicked his long tail, joining in the fight against the larger-than-normal flies calling Northumbria their home. That was the only battle he would get involved in that day.

“What are the lands like north of here?” Thaddeus asked. “The lands of Scotland. Are they just as enchanting?”

“They’re cold,” Gunnar replied.

“I hear their women are as big as north men.”

Gunnar straightened at that, puffed out his chest.

“I jest my friend.” Thaddeus laughed.

“They are a big folk,” Gunnar conceded, “with pale skin and wild, red hair. And they paint their faces all blue for battle. They look like demons.”

“You know what a demon looks like,” Asaf said, “and they look nothing like it.”

“Oh, so he speaks again, the grumpy turd who won’t say a prayer for doomed men,” teased Gunnar

“If their hearts are right, they’ll be meeting our Lord Christ today. They don’t need me to help them along.”

“Your mouth is insatiable priest,” Thaddeus said. “And you know as well as I do a demon can look like anything.”

Asaf grumbled, and Gunnar laughed.

“Do you think the Scots are helping the Saxons?” Thaddeus asked.

“I would bet on it,” Gunnar replied. “I hear King William II has plans to expand in the north. It’s not that the Saxons and the Scots ever got along, but … well, you know the usual enemy of my enemy situation.”

As Thaddeus waited and watched, Polemistes shifted his weight again, flicking his tail before he snorted.

“So, are we going to just sit here?” Gunnar asked, wafting a hand to clear the air.

Thaddeus eyed his friend, his brother in arms, with a smile that reached his otherwise cold gray eyes. The Swedish warrior rubbed his ruddy forehead with the palm of his callused hand. His wide shoulders slumped, and he sighed with frustration, and his irritation widened Thaddeus’s smile.

“That’s exactly what you mean to do, isn’t it? I know that smile,” Gunnar said, scratching the yellow, bushy beard occupying his chin.

Thaddeus continued to watch as the Northumbrian Saxons eyed the men from Normandy as they gathered across the wide plain.

“No archers today.”

“It doesn’t look like it,” Gunnar replied. “Kind of foolish, if you ask me. This whole thing would be done with a few volleys.”

Thaddeus decided the Saxons looked nervous, and he could not blame them. Their lines swayed and twitched while the Normans looked stoic. Still and confident. They should be. In a matter of a few years, they had completely subdued the Land of the Angles—England—with deadly precision. He had seen many armies that looked like that. He had fought in many armies that looked like that.

It meant nothing, though. Too many times, Thaddeus had seen the outnumbered side win. Too many times he had seen the less organized, less equipped, less trained, man slay the giant. Perhaps this would be the Saxons’ day.

“David and Goliath,” Thaddeus muttered before he shook his head. “Not today.”

The Normans were too good, too powerful. They bore the blood of the north men, as their name indicated. They had conquered the lands around the Holy city of Rome with little effort. The emperors of the Eastern Empire hired them as mercenaries. They were the descendants of the Rus and the Varangians. They fought the Moors in Iberia. They settled and survived in the coldest, hardest places of the Lord’s Creation. Almost thirty years ago now, and it had taken only three months for the Duke William of Normandy—William the Conqueror—to defeat the Saxons.

“What’re you saying?” Gunnar asked.

“Nothing.” Thaddeus shook his head.

“If we were to wager,” Gunnar said, “who would win?”

“You would gamble on the lives of these men?” Asaf asked.

“The outcome is always the decision of the Lord,” Gunnar replied.

“Not since Christ,” Asaf said, “who forbade lot casting. But the Lord would choose the Saxons.”

Gunnar looked to Thaddeus, eyes wide, smile gleaming.

“Oh ho. I have piqued our clerical friend’s interest.”

Thaddeus tried not to laugh.

“You are wagering on dead men, my friend,” Gunnar added.

“You said we weren’t wagering,” Asaf replied. “And besides, I’d rather wager on dead Christians than men who descend from those pagan animals in the north.”

“Oh, you cut deep, my canonical partner.” Gunnar laughed loudly and Thaddeus, for a moment, worried the armies below might hear them.

Just then, the air went silent, a vacuum as the wind stilled, and with a great cry of voices and shaking of iron, the Normans and Saxons sprang forward. The din of battle rose up like a giant’s scream. Metal against metal sent up a wretched sound like nails on slate, ringing through the air like devilish gongs calling down the heavens right upon their heads. Soon, the wails of dying men melded perfectly with the sights and sounds of battle Thaddeus knew all too well.

At first, much to Thaddeus’ surprise, the cries of defeat and death came mostly from the Normans as the Saxons swarmed over them like angry hornets, their nest disturbed. He looked to his left and saw the small crook of a smile on Asaf’s lips. They drove the Normans back, inch-by-inch, shedding blood as they went. But then, the stampeding hooves of the Norman cavalry shook the earth, thundering like great war drums.

Now he could see the fear in the eyes of the Saxons as the Normans rode in, their lances blazing like fire in the morning sun. They were lowered, ready to spear men on their leaf-shaped tips, and within moments, they tore through Anglo-Saxon flesh like a scythe through harvest-ready wheat.

“The Lord have mercy on them,” Gunnar said and made the sign of the cross.

“The Almighty may not be here,” Asaf said. “He has abandoned them, cursing all efforts to retake their lands. So, what are we doing here?”

Neither of his companions answered, and Asaf continued, “I’m tired of seeing a bunch of backward Saxon whores die under the iron of an army of horse turds. If we aren’t here to help the Saxons, or Normans for that matter, then let’s go and do what the Lord has called us here to do. Have you seen enough?”

Thaddeus nodded and pulled his reins to the side, turning Polemistes around. They rode down the gentle hill from the plateau where they watched the battle, its sounds fading, and Thaddeus was glad for it. He had seen more than a lifetime’s worth of death, but the sounds were always worse, the cursing and the cries and the screams of the fallen.

They turned their horses south, towards where the Lord was sending them. Thaddeus’s vision didn’t tell him, directly, where they were supposed to go, but when they landed in Bamburgh on the Northumbrian coast, he knew their duty would take them south. Sometimes it was a person who led them, and at times it was a landmark he saw in his dreams. But for now, he would have to follow his gut.

As they turned to avoid a thick copse of trees, they skirted the edge of the battlefield and could see the fighting was all but over. It had spread out across a larger area, into smaller fights between individual men as one sought to flee, and an enemy gave chase. However, with the battle over and won, most of the surviving Normans marched northeast.

A loud yell caught Thaddeus’ attention, and he turned to see a Saxon man running towards them. He was a tall fellow with broad shoulders, but the scraggly beard on his face showed youth; despite his age, he wore a mail shirt, something typically reserved for the wealthier Saxon hearthguard. Thaddeus had never mastered the language of the Anglo-Saxons—it seemed to change with every generation—but the man was yelling something to him.

Thaddeus halted Polemistes, turned and drew his sword. Gunnar and Asaf did the same, the Norseman also readying his long spear, and the defrocked priest took up his hammer. The Saxon held up his long sword and his leather-bound round shield, which held a nasty crack as if he was signifying he wasn’t a threat. But before he could reach the trio, a Norman soldier raced up behind the man, swinging his sword after him.

The Norman’s long sword landed haphazardly against the Saxon’s hip. It drew no blood but was levied hard enough to bruise. The Saxon stumbled and fell to a knee and then turned in time to block another Norman attack. As the Norman’s blade struck the Saxon’s shield, the wood split even more, and the Saxon threw it aside.

The Norman swung twice, each time the Saxon gracefully dodging the attacks—the sign of a trained warrior; a hearthguard indeed. The Norman was trained as well, and certainly better than most of the Anglo-Saxons they fought, but not better than this man and, in frustration, turned to attacking with pure muscle and rage. Back on his feet, the Saxon returned the attack, his blade slicing across the Norman’s sword arm. He attacked again, but the Norman blocked the long sword. In response, the Norman swung down hard overhead three times, each time barely missing the Anglo-Saxon, his iron blade hissing through the air like a flaming arrow.

This went on for several minutes, a back-and-forth show of strength and determination versus finesse and training, but it was the Norman who tired first. His attacks became more awkward and careless, and the Saxon pressed his attack, pushing his foe back on his heels. The Norman’s appearance had been of a haughty leader, an important knight, but now his pale skin, glistening with sweat, and his shaped black beard were a stark contrast to the Anglo-Saxon’s sandy hair and ruddy complexion. Thaddeus could see the weariness in his shoulders, the fatigue throughout his body.

The Norman dropped his sword—only for a moment; it was all the Anglo-Saxon soldier needed. He gripped his long sword in both hands, and he swung hard. Thaddeus heard bone crack as the iron fell hard on the Norman’s shoulder and his knees buckled. He stepped sideways, his left arm hanging loose at his side, and the Anglo-Saxon swung again, and his sword caught the Norman in the ribs.

The long sword wasn’t meant for stabbing, with its tip rounded it was meant for slashing and clubbing, but nonetheless, the Saxon thrust. His cheeks puffed out, and his face turning red, the weapon pierced the cloth hauberk, broke through chest bone, and pushed out the Norman’s back between his shoulder blades.

Thaddeus saw the look on Gunnar’s face, contorted and disgusted. He felt the same. He had seen worse, much worse, more times than he could count or remember, but every time a man died right in front of him, it turned his stomach.

The Saxon pulled his sword free, and the Norman fell sideways, staring to the sky for a moment. His glassy gaze turned to Thaddeus, and he couldn’t help wondering if the man silently cursed them for not helping. Then, his eyes rolled back, a trail of blood escaped his mouth, and he breathed his last.

The Saxon turned again to face Thaddeus and his companions and dropped his sword on the ground before he rested his hands on his knees, panting to get his breath back. He lifted his head and yelled something, but Thaddeus didn’t know what he was saying. He looked to Gunnar. The Norseman’s native language was closely related to the language of the Anglo-Saxons.

“What did he say?” Thaddeus asked.

“Help,” Gunnar replied, “and something like we are the ones he’s looking for.”

“Do you think he’s the Lord’s vessel?” Asaf asked, but Thaddeus had not time to reply, as Gunnar tapped him on the shoulder with the tip of his spear and then pointed across the field. Three other Normans were running towards the Saxon, the desire for death and revenge on their faces. The heavy shrug and then slump in the Saxon’s shoulders showed acceptance of defeat.

“If he’s the one to lead us to the Lord’s mission, shouldn’t we help him?” Gunnar asked.

“I don’t know if he is,” Thaddeus said. “I didn’t see him in my dream.”

“Do we take that chance?” Gunnar asked. “You have not always seen the one who was the messenger, so can we let these Normans kill the man who might be the one to lead us to the Lord’s work?”

“No.” Thaddeus shook his head. “Asaf?”

The cleric shook his head and shrugged.

“Why the hell not?”

“Good,” replied Thaddeus and nudged Polemistes forward. “Do you think they speak Latin?”

“No,” Gunnar said. “They are simple foot soldiers.”

“What language do the Normans speak?”

“I think the same language as the Franks,” Asaf replied.

“Back down,” Thaddeus said in Frankish.

One soldier laughed, another scowled, and the last one cursed.

“I don’t think they want to comply,” Gunnar said.

“I think you’re right,” Thaddeus replied as he nudged Polemistes again, moving his horse in between the Saxon and the Normans.

“Move away,” he said. “Go back to your commanders, go back to your company and live another day.”

The Normans replied by laughing, and Thaddeus studied the three soldiers. As Gunnar said, they were simple Norman foot soldiers, not the type to attack, unprovoked, a horsed swordsman, let alone three. Yet, these men laughed. They were different. Something else drove their desire to kill this Saxon. He thought he saw the faintest glimmer, a flash of light, in one of the soldier’s eyes, even though the sun had gone behind the clouds.

“You don’t want to do this,” Thaddeus said in Frankish, knowing his words would fall on deaf ears. It didn’t matter what he said; these men would attack even if it meant their deaths. “Today is not a good day to die.”

One Norman tried to move behind Thaddeus, but Gunnar’s spear struck the man in the chest as another soldier tried to move to the front of Polemistes. Thaddeus pulled hard on his horse’s reins, and the horse reared up and kicked out with its forelegs. One hoof slammed against the man’s forehead, and he crumpled to the ground. The last Norman soldier tried to charge Thaddeus straight on, and a flash of steel removed the soldier’s sword arm just above the elbow.

Thaddeus dismounted and, sword still drawn, stood over the soldier. The Norman held his stump as blood spilled over his hand. He rolled about and kicked out, slamming his heels into the ground as he seethed through clenched teeth. He didn’t cry, and he didn’t ask for mercy. He looked at Thaddeus with dark, furled eyebrows and malice in his dark eyes. He cursed. That strange glint again.

“I take no pleasure in this,” Thaddeus said, placing the point of his sword above the man’s collarbone. “I told you to leave. This man has earned his life today and, if you had listened, you would have earned yours as well. But blood lust cost you your life.”

“Let the dirty dog suffer,” Asaf said. “He should have listened. He deserves to bleed to death.”

“And who are we to determine what a man deserves?” Thaddeus asked, keeping his eyes trained on the Norman soldier. “Did Stephen deserve his death at the hands of Saul of Tarsus? And did Paul deserve his death at the hands of the Romans?”

“Are you comparing this man to holy martyrs?” Asaf asked. Thaddeus could hear the derision in his voice. “Why not just compare him to our Lord Christ and his suffering upon to cross?”

Thaddeus smiled. Then, he turned to the dying Norman who spat at Thaddeus.

“Do you wish to confess your sins?” Thaddeus asked.

The soldier’s eyes darkened, the glint leaving them like a snuffed-out candle and his head shook rapidly, side to side as he groaned and foamed at the mouth.

“He’s having a fit?” Asaf questioned.

“Wrong. He’s possessed,” Gunnar replied.

The soldier stopped and glared at Thaddeus. He was calm, and he smiled.

“The pain that has been prepared for you is far greater than this,” the Norman soldier said, lifting his stump.

Now Thaddeus knew the purpose behind the Normans’ attack had not been one of simple revenge, but there was something about this Saxon, as well as this soldier and his companions, that made them attack … want to kill them. He pressed his sword, the point breaking the man’s skin at his neck.

“And what is your reward?” Thaddeus asked. “If you serve the evil one, what will be your reward for failure? Ask for forgiveness, and the Lord will welcome you into his arms this day.”

“Piss on you and your …”

Before he could finish, Thaddeus pressed the point of his blade into the Norman’s neck. His eyes went wide, and blood poured from his mouth and nose. His eyes turned black, and blood flowed from them as well, as if it were tears. His whole body shook, so violently there were cracks as joints dislocated. And then he lay still.

“This is not good,” Gunnar said with a slight shake of his head.

Thaddeus turned to face the Saxon soldier who left his sword on the ground and put up his hands. Gunnar and Asaf nudged their horses up behind the man.

“And what about you?” Thaddeus asked.

CHAPTER 2

“WHO IS HE?” Thaddeus asked.

“His name is Alden; a Mercian,” Gunnar replied. “He says he’s a hearthguard to someone important, but he won’t say who.”

“Were most of the Saxons who fought here Northumbrian?” Thaddeus asked.

“Aye,” Gunnar said with a nod.

As much as the Saxons hated the Normans and had fought for the last thirty years to reclaim their lands from the influx of immigrants from Normandy, as well as other Frankish provinces, they were as fractionalized as many other places. Each small area of England fought with the others and claimed superiority. Northumbrians hated Mercians, who hated Wessexers and Sussexers. It was this way until a man who called himself Alfred the Great, from Wessex, united the seven kingdoms of England. Even then, he could do little against Danish raids, and infighting still went on.

Alden spoke to Gunnar again. He understood some Latin, being an elite Saxon soldier, but not enough to carry on a conversation with Thaddeus.

“He says he was looking for us,” Gunnar said with a shrug.

“I don’t like this,” Asaf said. “He’s an agent of the Devil.”

“Just a moment ago you agreed he could be the one to lead us to our holy mission,” Thaddeus replied.

“Well, I’ve changed my mind,” Asaf said.

The Saxon spoke again, Gunnar translating as he did.

“He’s from a shire,” Gunnar said, “called Derbyshire. It’s two days’ ride from here.”

“Why is he so far from home?” Asaf asked.

“Looking for us,” Gunnar replied. “There’s a bishop in Derbyshire, rather, in a town in Derbyshire called Chesterfield. He’s the one who sent Alden. He knew what we would look like. He says the Lord led him here, through his dreams. Apparently, he saw us, up on that plateau, and got caught up in the fighting.”

“Sounds like witchcraft to me,” Asaf said.

“We have dreams leading us to do the Lord’s work,” Thaddeus said.

“Yes, but, we’re good Christian men,” Asaf replied.

“Well, I’m a good Christian man,” Gunnar said with a smile.

“Jest all you want,” Asaf said, “but this land, as well as its people, are still wild, and paganism is in their blood.”

“Paganism is in all our blood,” Thaddeus said. He turned to Gunnar, waving a hand loosely in the direction of the dead Normans. “What about them?”

Gunnar looked to Alden, and their conversation was short and hushed.

“Through the whole battle, they seemed to follow him,” Gunnar translated. “He says they … they smelled.”

Asaf gave Thaddeus a worried look.

“Demon stink,” the former priest said.

“Aye,” Thaddeus replied. “Find him a horse, Gunnar. We will follow him. Asaf, we need to tend to the dying.”

†

THE SCREAMING and crying of the wounded faded as they left the site of the battle behind. What few Anglo-Saxons who survived enough to remain on their feet had fled to the northwest and the remaining Normans had marched off to the northeast.

“Where do you think they’re going?” Asaf asked, staring off in the direction in which the Norman force had marched.

“There was a man who spoke Latin at that hostel in York,” Thaddeus replied.

“Aye. I remember him,” Asaf replied.

“Truly,” Thaddeus said with a smile. “You seemed rather consumed by their good ale.”

“It was anything but good,” Asaf replied with a wave of his hand.

“We had a long conversation, him saying a good number of folk were traveling north, to a place called Alnwick,” Thaddeus said. “It’s an old Roman fort, one I remember vaguely. The Saxons built a hundred-foot palisade around the fort, and a castle also called Alnwick. Now the Normans are building another castle of stone and mortar north of here, and they’re paying Saxons to help build it. I suspect those Normans might be going to Alnwick or Richmond Castle in Hindrelag. I suppose if King William Rufus plans on invading Scotland, either would be a good enough launching point.”

Thaddeus looked around the battlefield. In the year of our Lord 1093, the scene was the same as it always had been. When the Huns invaded Rome, when Rome fell, the fall of Alexandria, when the Umayyad’s conquered Iberia, the invasions of the Magyars, the conquests of Charlemagne—the aftermaths were always the same—no matter how many battles, no matter how many armies, no matter how many generals and how many men, the scene never changed, and Thaddeus could predict what would happen next. In moments, the scavengers would come. If the battlefield were close to a town, which it often was, in an hour, mothers and sisters and wives and daughters would be here, searching through the dead, wailing and cursing. The priest would come after them, praying and singing psalms and hymns. Then the undertakers would arrive with their oxcarts to carry the bodies away.

And the scavengers came. Most might think when someone said the word they spoke of ravens or wild dogs, of wolves or even bears. In the east, beyond the Holy Land, they were the flies and beetles. In Africa, they were jackals and buzzards and hyenas. But no, these scavengers were no dog or bird.

“Animals,” Asaf said. “Cursed animals.”

“Where do they come from?” Gunnar asked, having found a stray Norman horse, its rider defeated, for their new Saxon friend. “They appear so quickly after the battle, like ghosts out of thin air,” he added, riding up next to Thaddeus and Asaf.

“Demons,” Asaf muttered, his eyebrows lowered in distaste.

“Aye,” Thaddeus replied. “Some might be. It seems we’ve already seen several today … at least, men possessed by demons.”

He watched as a young man, coverings more tatters than clothing, sifted through dead bodies. He checked pockets and purses. He looked up and caught Thaddeus’s stare. His eyes looked yellowed; his teeth blackened—many of them gone. A year’s worth of dirt caked his face, and when he saw Thaddeus, he hissed like some possessed cat.

Spread across the battlefield, a dozen similar-looking men sifted through the corpses, seeking out whatever treasures they could find.

“What could they possibly want from these men?” Gunnar asked.

“Money, weapons, food,” Thaddeus said.

“God be good! You don’t think they eat these dead men, do you?” Gunnar asked.

Thaddeus could see the twisted mouth, disgusted look crossing Gunnar’s face.

“It’s not like you’ve never seen a man eat the flesh of another man,” Thaddeus said.

“Aye. But not in the lands of good Christian men,” Gunnar replied.

“By His wounds,” Asaf exclaimed, “these aren’t Christian men. No Christian man would do such a thing.”

“Need drives men to do things one might never expect a man to do,” Thaddeus replied, “like lie, cheat, even murder another man. Eh, Asaf? One might not think a good Christian man, let alone a good, Christian priest, could do those things either.”

Asaf didn’t reply, but Thaddeus could hear him cursing under his breath.

“I think you went too far,” Gunnar whispered to Thaddeus after pulling his warhorse close to Polemistes.

Thaddeus shrugged his shoulders.

“Perhaps. But what did the Lord Christ say in our Blessed Gospel of Matthew? ‘Hypocrite, remove first the plank from your own eye before you remove the speck of dust from your brother’s eye.’ I believe those were the words.”

“Do not quote scripture to me, Thaddeus,” Asaf said. “My farts know more about the Gospels than you do. By God, I know more about scripture than Pope Urban himself.”

“Oh ho,” Gunnar cried. Thaddeus could see a smile scrawling across his face. “Now we know why our friend of the cloth was excommunicated: Heresy. Such a bold statement, to pretend to know more about God than the head of the church.”

“It’s no pretense,” Asaf replied quietly with a slight shake of his head.

Thaddeus didn’t know if he was meant to hear the cleric, but he did hear him muttering prayers as they passed the dead.

For all your curses and ranting, priest, you are still a man of God with a heart for God’s work.

“I feel like we should gather these poor savages together,” Gunnar said, breaking a short silence and waving a hand out to include all of the scavenging men. “We have a priest. We have money. We have food. Should we not bless them with both earthly and heavenly food?”

Alden said something. It sounded angry.

“He says these are not men,” Gunnar translated. “They should be killed.”

“Maybe I do like this Saxon pagan,” Asaf muttered.

Thaddeus shook his head.

“No, Gunnar is right. We must help these poor, lost souls,” Thaddeus said.

“What of our mission?” Asaf replied, his voice ripe with irritation.

“Helping lost souls is our constant mission,” Thaddeus replied, “always present.”

“If you know the Scriptures so well,” Asaf retorted, “then you should know what directly follows the Gospel message you just quoted. ‘Do not give dogs what is holy, and do not throw your pearls before pigs, lest they trample them underfoot and turn to attack you.’”

“So, you think these men are dogs?” Thaddeus asked. “Should we kill them, then?”

He heard Asaf huff and knew, without seeing, his shoulders slumped in acceptance. At the same time, Alden started yelling at one of the scavengers, apparently for coming too close to his horse. He pointed and shouted, and the man simply hissed. Alden unsheathed his long sword.

“Tell him to put his weapon away,” Thaddeus said to Gunnar, “lest he would like to continue this journey bound and strapped across Polemistes flanks.”

Their conversation was short, ending with an angry glare from Alden while he sheathed his weapon.

“If you so wish me to say a word over these heathens, then I will do so,” Asaf said, and then added, “a short one. A very short one.”

Leaving Alden behind, the three companions moved off to a point in the field relatively untouched by the battle.

“Come hither,” Thaddeus shouted. He spoke in Latin, but he knew, as he spoke, the scavengers would hear his words in their native language. The Holy Spirit had many gifts, and one He had given Thaddeus many years ago was the gift of tongues. It wasn’t always present, like when trying to communicate with their new Saxon companion, Alden. But whenever the need was related to his work for the Lord, like helping a dozen lost souls, his gift was there.

“Come. We have food and money. And a priest to hear your confessions and prayers.” He stood up in his stirrups, spreading his arms wide.

They seemed to lumber forward, following Thaddeus’s voice. They looked like the undead, men tortured by hunger. Through holes in their clothing, he could see bones poking through paper-thin skin. At the very mention of food, they came and clawed at Thaddeus’ legs. Gunnar pulled on the reins of his warhorse, backing the creature up.

“Move back,” Thaddeus said. “If you want food, get back.”

In their current state, these weren’t men; they were animals as they moaned and hissed and clawed.

“I smell a demon,” Asaf said. “They are possessed. We would be better off killing them and releasing their souls.”

“They aren’t possessed,” Thaddeus replied. “They are simply being controlled. They are weak-minded, hungry, poor men. That kind of man, as you well know, is easily controlled by someone—or something—who is more powerful.”

Demon stink wasn’t the smell of dirt and body odor. It wasn’t the smell of unwashed flesh. It wasn’t even the smell of dead men on a battlefield. It was the smell of sin, corruption, and evil. It bit the trained nose, clawed at the back of the throat, and twisted stomachs.

Thaddeus looked up, scanning the battlefield. He could still smell it somewhere out there. He saw one man, one who hadn’t come to his calling. He looked like a Norman soldier, but his armor hung from his body. He had sunken cheeks, and his eyes looked hollow. He was no true Norman. Thaddeus felt his pulse quicken as, in the intermittent sun, he saw a reddish glimmer in the man’s eyes as he hissed.

“Should I run him down?” Gunnar must’ve seen him as well.

“No.” Thaddeus shook his head. “He won’t come any closer. Not now. Let us tend to these poor souls. Let us do the Lord’s work and aid in uncorrupting them.”

As the dozen broken men clamored to be fed, Asaf recited a prayer in Aramaic, the language of the ancient Roman province of Judea. His voice began as a whisper and then grew louder until he was shouting. As if ten men were chanting at the same time, his voice rolled over the scavengers and the battlefield in a wave of sound. The air before Thaddeus seemed to ripple and shake, and as the prayer ended, all the scavenging men shrieked and fell to the ground in a heap of ragged, bony flesh. They lay still for a few moments and, then started gagging and coughing as if ridding themselves of something terrible they had swallowed.

Thaddeus reached down into one of his saddlebags and retrieved a round loaf of bread, its crust a hearty, deep brown. Many years ago, a monk in Ethiopia had given Thaddeus the bag as a gift. Some might call it magic, but the monk called it blessed. He explained as Jesus had fed the five thousand with just five loaves of bread, Thaddeus would be able to feed men and women whenever it helped his work. He threw it to the man closest to his horse, an emaciated fellow with a black beard spreading out like some wild bush. The dozen men started fighting over the bread, tearing at it and each other.

“Stop!” Thaddeus shouted. “Be kind to one another. The Lord commands you love your neighbor as yourself. I have enough so that every man may have his own.”

He retrieved another loaf of bread and threw it to the next man. And another. And another. And another, until all the men had their own, round loaf of bread. Then, Asaf tossed him three water skins—also gifts from the Ethiopian monk—which he in turn passed to the men before them.

“Drink your fill, brothers, and then pass it along,” Thaddeus said. “There is enough for everyone. Do not be afraid. Adam’s Ale will not run dry.”

As they ate and drank, Thaddeus once more looked out over the battlefield. The lone creature posing as a Norman man had gone, although the natural carrion feeders, the wild dogs and the crows, had finally arrived to feast on the plentiful bounty war had to offer them.

Thaddeus turned as he heard Gunnar speak with Alden. The Saxon soldier’s eyes were wide, and his words almost a whisper.

“He wants to know what magic this is,” Gunnar said.

“No magic,” Thaddeus replied. “Just the Lord’s work.”

“Why can’t he understand you,” Gunnar asked—it was his own question, not Alden’s, “and these men can?”

“He doesn’t need to understand me,” Thaddeus said with a smile, reaching down and retrieving one of the water skins. “He sounds irritated.”

“He is,” Gunnar replied. “He says he needs to take us to Chesterfield, to this bishop. His mission depends on it.”

“Our mission depends on this,” Asaf said as he made the sign of the cross in front of each of the twelve men.

“Asaf is right. No matter what new task our Lord gives us, our mission always depends on helping men such as these,” Thaddeus said with a smile, never taking his eyes off the twelve men gathering in front of them. “That is truly our mission … and the Lord’s work. Asaf, will you preach to these men before we leave?”

“If you insist,” Asaf replied with a shrug, but he didn’t look truly put out by the suggestion. He retrieved a large, leather-bound bible from one of his saddlebags, dismounted, and walked over to the men.

Asaf read from the scriptures and said a few prayers before he finally made the sign of the cross. The twelve men mirrored his motion, and they all said “Amen” in unison. Even Alden could see these men were renewed, albeit still dirty and ragged, they looked like men. Thaddeus knew they would improve now, with the weight of evil lifted from their shoulders. They would hopefully return to their families, if they had them, and move on with their lives. After Asaf prayed with some of the men individually, they began to move off in different directions.

“My lord,” one of the men said, addressing Thaddeus. “I do not know what magic this is, but I cannot thank you enough. I cannot remember the last time I had fresh water and food.”

“I am no lord,” Thaddeus replied, “but you may thank our Lord for the provisions He has given us this day, for this is no magic, but simply His grace.”

“I will tell everyone I meet what happened here,” the man said.

“There is no need,” Thaddeus said. “Just be kind to one another and treat others as you would be treated. Pray for your fellow man and follow the Lord’s commandments.”

“Yes, sir,” the man replied.

As Thaddeus and his companions readied to move off, the sun was setting, and he had no wish to camp near a field of the dead.

“No women. No undertakers. No priests,” Gunnar said.

“Not with him around,” Thaddeus said as he looked for one more time out over the field. The demon had left, but he could still feel its presence as the day darkened and a light mist began to creep up and hang over the dead.

“I guess follow our Saxon friend here,” Thaddeus said.

“With great haste,” Asaf added. “This place stinks like rat farts.”

“There he is again,” Gunnar exclaimed, “the foul-mouthed priest I have come to love.”

“Bread?” Thaddeus reached down into his saddlebag, retrieved another loaf of bread, and offered it to Gunnar.

“Aye,” the tall, yellow-haired man said.

As Gunnar ate, Alden rode up next to Thaddeus. At first, his eyebrows were furled, and he seemed to peer at Thaddeus, a look of distrust on his face. But then, he smiled, only slightly, and jerked his head to the side and heeled his horse.

CHAPTER 3

T  HADDEUS WOKE WITH A JOLT. He had been drowning in his dream, desperately trying to gulp air and only taking in more salty water. He didn’t know if it was a vision, a fear infiltrating his unconsciousness or a memory. He had almost drowned several times in his life.

Despite the humidity and light mist hanging in the night air, the fire Thaddeus had built still raged. The elm and oak wood spit and crackled, and the heat radiated out, spurning the soft drizzle and casting away the ghostly mist gathering in the darkness. He looked to the sky. No stars. No moon. Only high clouds blackening the already dark night.

“No stars,” Thaddeus muttered.

Gunnar and Alden were awake while Asaf snored loudly.

“What?” Gunnar asked.

“There are no stars tonight,” he repeated. “I don’t much care for nights where I can’t see the stars. They re—”

“Remind you of your childhood,” Gunnar interrupted. “Yes, I know.”

“You know me too well,” Thaddeus said.

“Well, we’ve been together long enough, haven’t we?”

Thaddeus nodded. He sat up and yawned, stretching his arms. He thought about his dream. Sometimes they were just that, but other times they were more, visions, directions, or signs. What he had just woken from seemed like the latter. He’d seen the beautiful woman before, but this time in much more detail. She had long, black, wavy hair and pale skin and spoke with a large man with bobbed, red hair and a large, drooping, red mustache. They were in a castle, built of stone, and demons danced around as fire rose up around the perimeter.

Here there were people—thousands of people—tied to stakes. They screamed as their skin caught fire and blistered and they burned, and the demons laughed. He saw cloaked figures, chanting as they stood around a bed on which lay a naked man. Then he saw sand, a vast desert littered with bones, and a burning cross in the distance. Thaddeus then found himself falling, and he hit the water hard. He rubbed his face where the water struck him when he was drowning. And then he woke up.

“When was the last time we saw one of them,” Gunnar asked, “let alone four.”

“It has been a while,” Thaddeus said. “Asia Minor? Egypt?”

“They are all around us,” Asaf said, coughing a little as he rolled over to stare at Thaddeus and Gunnar. “Especially in this land. You just don’t see them.”

Asaf sat up and rubbed his face. He tried to keep his face clean shaven, unlike his fellow warriors, but it had been a while, and his hair was dark and coarse and made a scratching sound every time he touched it.

“They’re sneaky creatures,” Asaf said, holding his hands up and wiggling his fingers as if he were trying to scare little children. “I even saw one posing as a bishop in Rome.”

“You did not,” Gunnar said.

“As Christ is my witness,” Asaf replied.

“Is that why God has brought us here?” Gunnar asked. “To kill demons?”

“You can’t really kill a demon,” Asaf said, rolling his eyes.

“Whatever,” Gunnar said, throwing a twig at his priestly friend. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t know,” Thaddeus said with a shrug of his shoulders. “I dreamed of a woman with dark hair. She was beautiful and enchanting.”

“Sounds like you’re dreaming of our time in Iberia,” Gunnar said, laughing.

Thaddeus ignored him; ignored his jollity. He saw the woman, the way she moved, she spoke, her skin, her hair, her body. Then he remembered she had looked at him, as if she knew she was in his dream, in his mind at that moment. Then her face changed, and she was a different woman. One Thaddeus knew long ago.

He shook his head and coughed, taking a drink from his water skin.

“I don’t know what our mission is,” he reiterated. “But I don’t think it’s to send demons back to hell. That’s always our mission, anytime we come across one.”

“Maybe there’s an infestation,” Gunnar said.

“What are they?” Asaf asked. “Rats?”

“Might as well be,” Gunnar replied, throwing another twig at the man.

“Why don’t you ask our Saxon friend here,” Thaddeus said.

“He keeps saying the same thing,” Gunnar said. “He is to take us to a bishop in Chesterfield. He also keeps telling me there is a king in Chesterfield.”

“A king?” Asaf asked.

“What would William Rufus be doing in Chesterfield?” Thaddeus asked.

“He’s not King William,” Gunnar said. “I asked him the same thing. He’s some Saxon king.”

“The Saxons don’t have any kings now,” Asaf said.

Gunnar just shrugged.

“Damn this land,” Asaf said with an angry grunt.

“Is it so different than any other?” Thaddeus asked.

“Yes, if you must ask,” Asaf said. “I know you think it is beautiful and wonderful and magical in all its chaos, but I don’t.”

“It is beautiful,” Thaddeus said, looking up at the intermittent stars now peeking through the clouds. “It’s always been beautiful. And beauty is often cruel too, isn’t it? Beauty is dangerous. Beauty is powerful.”

“What are you talking about?” Asaf asked.

“Nothing,” Thaddeus replied. Then he looked to the priest. “It was good to hear you preach today. It has been too long since you have spoken God’s word to a group of men. You might have very well saved their souls today.”

“I doubt it,” Asaf muttered. “A hungry man would bloody listen to a priest fart if he fed him.”

“But you still did God’s work,” Thaddeus replied.

“Not really,” Asaf said. “We fed them, gave them water, and prayed for them. We saved them from corruption … for now. They will eat their bread, say their prayers, and then some other thing will soon be waiting to corrupt their souls again before you can say, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”

“Have faith,” Thaddeus said. “Have hope. The words you spoke today were powerful. I saw men changed today, as I have in the past. Changed for good.”

“I fear, at times, my faith is running out, Thaddeus,” Asaf said, throwing a twig into the fire. “I fear hope is gone. I’m a defrocked priest. A sinner of the worst kind.”

“We all are sinners,” Thaddeus said.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Asaf said. “But what good can we do? What good can I do? How many more of these missions are we to go on?”

“As many as the Lord calls us to,” Thaddeus said.

“For how long, Thaddeus?” Asaf asked. “You were the first … the first of us. How long do we keep going on?”

“I don’t know,” Thaddeus said, trying to smile but feeling the same weariness he saw on Asaf’s face. “I don’t know.”

CHAPTER 4

T  HADDEUS LOOKED OVER HIS SHOULDER. He was some distance behind them, almost out of sight. But he was there.

“Do you see him?” he asked

“Aye,” replied Gunnar without even turning around.

“Is that who I think it is?” questioned Asaf.

“It is. The one we saw at the battlefield,” Thaddeus replied.

“A bold little demon,” Gunnar said, “to be following us.”

“You know as well as I do something else is commanding him,” Thaddeus said. “Say a prayer for us, Asaf.”

“It’s not magic,” Asaf replied.

“I know,” Thaddeus said, “but it would make me feel better.”

“And me,” Gunnar added.

Asaf huffed loudly and then sighed before he said a prayer. It wasn’t in Latin or Hebrew. Whenever Asaf was truly serious about his prayers, he prayed in his language, that of the Jews. When he’d finished with his ‘Amen’, Thaddeus and Gunnar made the sign of the cross. Thaddeus felt better after Asaf’s prayer. He felt secure and protected. He knew the evil one who had been following them would stay away, in darkness, at least for a little while.

“Should we teach him more Latin?” Thaddeus asked, nodding to Alden who rode some ten paces in front of them.

“I think he knows quite a bit already,” Gunnar replied.

“How long is he going to be with us?” Asaf asked.

“What do you mean?” Gunnar asked.

“How long is this Alden going to be traveling with us?” Asaf asked. “I’m not wasting my time on teaching him Latin if he’s only going to be with us another week or less.”

“I suppose we will find out when we get to Chesterfield,” Thaddeus said.

Alden heard the town’s name and slowed his horse so they could catch up.

“Chesterfield,” he said. And then, in his best Latin, he added, “We go. I take you see Bishop. Meet King.”

“He’s a quick learner,” Thaddeus said.

Asaf grumbled.

†

THADDEUS SAT SIDEWAYS on his saddle, leaning in close to the fire. As dusk had settled, the clouds darkened and unleashed a steady downpour soaking through to his breeches. His boots sank into the muddy ground as he leaned forward, hoping the heat would at least dry his hair. Polemistes snorted, nudging Thaddeus’s shoulder, stepping closer to the fire as well.

“Careful, boy.” Thaddeus rubbed Polemistes’ nose. “If you get too close, the fire might burn off your nose hairs.”

“If that’s the case,” Gunnar said with a laugh, “you ought to lean a little closer. I don’t know if I can distinguish the difference between your mustache and those hairs dangling from your nose.”

Asaf gave a loud, snorting laugh that almost sounded like a mule.

“Well, well. The somber, grumpy priest actually has a sense of humor.” Gunnar opened his hand as if presenting Asaf to Thaddeus.

Asaf covered his mouth and tried to straighten his face.

“He’s still out there.” Thaddeus nodded to the darkness.

“Two days come the morn,” Asaf added.

“Enough,” Gunnar grunted, standing hurriedly. “I’ve had enough of this.”

He grabbed his long spear, a six-foot-long piece of ash tipped by another foot of steel that could not only punch through the thickest piece of mail but cleave through a man’s neck despite his iron gorget. He walked to the edge of the firelight and Alden followed, standing just behind the large Norseman. Thaddeus could only see the back of Gunnar’s head, but he knew the look that would be on his face, a scowl that could melt iron and spoil any man’s blood. Gunnar lifted his spear into the darkness.

“I’m here you coward! Come and get me if you have the balls for it. You’ll not find a man here who will cower to you or grovel at your feet, you swine!”

“Gunnar,” Thaddeus said, his voice a low, whispering, hiss. “Do not tempt evil or the Devil. Come and sit down. Leave it be.”

“Nah.” Gunnar spit into the darkness. “I’ve seen too much. Been around too much. I’m not going to sit here while this demon stalks around behind us, in the darkness. Show yourself!”

Thaddeus was about to protest further, but he heard a rustle, a movement not too far off, beyond the light of the fire, and covered by the cloudy night. Alden drew his long sword and stepped up next to Gunnar. Thaddeus stood and drew his own sword, moving just behind Gunnar. Asaf was there too, only a second later, with a short sword in one hand, and a war hammer in the other. He heard Asaf muttering, under his breath. He was praying. Thaddeus thought a good idea; he should pray too.

A sound came again. Feet sloshing through the soggy ground and muddy puddles.

“Well,” Thaddeus said, “if he meant to be stealthy, he’s failed miserably.”

He heard Gunnar chuckle, but then came a hissing from the darkness, followed by a small screech like an owl.

Alden looked at Gunnar, sniffing at the air.

“He smells something,” Gunnar said.

“Demon stink?” Thaddeus asked.

“No,” Gunnar said with the quick shake of his head. “Decay.”

A man—or rather what had once been a man—burst from the darkness, screaming incoherently. His face was black and blue, and dried blood covered his mouth and nose. His clothing was tattered, and he carried no weapon.

“By Christ’s Bones,” Asaf cursed, swinging his hammer upwards.

It slammed into the lower jaw of the man. The flesh tore, and the mandible hung down, barely connected by rotting flesh and tendons. The man hissed as best he could and turned on Asaf, but Gunnar jammed his spear into his back and threw him towards the fire. The man’s clothes burst into flames, and he flailed about as his puss-ridden skin bubbled.

“The undead,” Thaddeus muttered.

“More come!” Alden yelled.

“He’s not surprised by the walking dead?” Asaf asked.

“Apparently not,” Thaddeus replied. He heard hissing and shuffling and screeching all around them. “Backs to the fire. Nothing gets behind you.”

Gunnar translated for Alden to be sure he understood, and they each faced outwards, waiting. Another dead man ran from the darkness of the rain-drenched night, his hands out and his long, filthy fingernails ready to scratch. Gunnar impaled the creature with his spear, but it pushed itself up the shaft, ignoring what would have been a grievous wound, and clawed at the Norseman until Alden removed its head. Another came, at Asaf, and the priest cut an arm off with his short sword while destroying its face with his hammer. Then another, towards Alden, and the hearthguard proved his skill as a warrior once more, removing both hands before lopping off its head.

Thaddeus heard more hissing and moaning in front of him. Then, he saw them, two more of the undead, lumbering from the darkness. A woman and a teenager, and he could sense they were mother and daughter. His stomach knotted as the mother’s head hung oddly to one side, and the daughter’s neck showed significant bruising, even in the discoloration of death. The undead child bit at the air while the mother sniffed and clawed at Thaddeus.

He gripped his sword with both hands. The mother came at him first, her speed belying her undead state. She snapped at him with blackened teeth, her stench putrid. As he kicked out at her, pushing her back, she rushed back in, clawing wildly. He swung upwards, removing a hand, but she didn’t even notice. The daughter came in after her. Staving off the mother with the tip of his blade to her shoulder, Thaddeus pushed against the undead child’s head, keeping her at arm’s length as she thrashed about. He could feel the brittleness of her skin on his palm. She was cold.

“What are you doing?” Gunnar yelled as he and Alden fought to keep several more of their attackers at bay.

“It’s a mere child!” Thaddeus replied, looking at the girl and, even though life no longer lived in her eyes, he saw a once vibrant child with long, brown hair and hazel eyes. She had a mouth, albeit stained with blood, that would have given a heartwarming smile and, from somewhere in his head, he heard her giggle.

Alden and Gunnar spoke sharply with one another. Thaddeus looked over his shoulder for a moment, and the undead mother pushed herself onto his blade, pressing closer and closer to him. The child’s attacks seemed to intensify, and then, she stopped. So did the mother.

He turned to see Alden standing over the undead girl’s body. Her head lay on the ground, her mouth fixed in a snarl, and her body next to it. He drew his sword back from the undead mother, releasing her, and then removed her head. Alden looked at Thaddeus and then at the undead child.

“She no alive,” Alden said in broken Latin. “Not a girl. Girl gone. With God.”

Asaf went from one undead body to the next, praying over them and then crossing himself. As he did so, each body shook, and a green mist rose from the corpse, the decaying husks emitting one last cry.

“Burn the bodies,” Asaf said. “Lest they become corrupted again.”

Before the others could obey, they heard laughter in the darkness. It was a man’s laughter, deep and resonating, and as the echo faded, the stink that was becoming far too familiar filled the air.

“Why don’t you come warm yourself beside our fire?” Gunnar asked.

“The brave Norseman,” the voice said, a croaking voice. It reminded Thaddeus of fingernails on slate. “We’ll see how brave you are when I show you your entrails and make you eat your balls.”

The ground shook, and the rain intensified, a loud wind swirling around the warriors. The fire, which blazed despite the rain, began to wane. Its light lessened, as did its warmth.

“This is no minor demon,” Asaf said, “or some demon-possessed man.”

“Stay behind me and pray,” Thaddeus said.

The voice from the darkness laughed.

“Your prayers won’t do you any good here,” the voice said. “They fall on deaf ears.”

“Ignore him,” Thaddeus said.

Asaf began to pray, and as the fire flared up again, a man walked into view, at the edge of the light. It was the Norman soldier Thaddeus had seen at the aftermath of the battlefield. His face looked even more skeletal, elongated with the sunken cheeks and eyes, and the flesh around his nose was heavily decayed, and his lips cracked and pulled back over his teeth. His mail hauberk hung loosely from his shoulders as if several sizes too big.

As he lifted his hands up, his fingernails grew into long claws, and lion-like feet burst from his boots. He snarled, and fangs grew where his incisors had been, tearing what little flesh his lips retained. The demon muttered something, and the rain turned to sharp hail. Beetles and roaches began to emerge from the wet soil, scurrying everywhere, over boots and up the warriors’ legs.

“Minor magic,” Thaddeus whispered as a shard of hail scratched his cheek. “Wait for him to come to us.” Gunnar and Alden nodded as Asaf continued to pray.

The demon crouched, ready to pounce, and then leaped into the air. As he was in the air, he jerked his hands towards the warriors. His fingernails burst from his fingertips like tiny spears, but they easily dodged them. The demon screeched as new claws replaced the old ones and it took off again, landing between Gunnar and Thaddeus. The creature lunged towards the priest, but an invisible wind pushed it back.

At the same time, Gunnar jabbed his spear into the back of the demon’s leg, and it screamed as Thaddeus brought his blade down on its shoulder. It swiped at Thaddeus, but Alden brought his long sword down on the exposed arm, removing it at the elbow. The demon screamed once more, as a new arm grew from the old stump, this one reptilian and scaly.

It now tried to turn on Alden, but Gunnar jammed his spear into the creature’s back. The foot-long blade burst through its chest, sending chain links from his hauberk in all directions. From the other side, Thaddeus punched his blade into the demon’s chest.

“Amen!” Asaf shouted, and some unseen wind pushed the demon down to his knees.

With sword and spear, Thaddeus and Gunnar held the demon there as Alden backed up. Asaf approached the demon, and it began to speak in a dark language, the one from the underworld.

“Silence!” Asaf shouted and the demon, even though he still tried to speak, choked on his words. “I send you back to the underworld from whence you came.”

Asaf made the sign of the cross and then, retrieving a large, wooden cross hanging from a leather string on his belt, pressed the symbol to the demon’s forehead. The infernal creature began to shake and lifted its head to the sky and let out a deafening scream as it burst into flames. Thaddeus and Gunnar retracted their weapons and, within moments, the demon was nothing but black ash on the ground, being washed away by the rain.

“Burn the bodies,” Asaf said, looking to the bodies of the undead.

“In the rain?” Gunnar asked.

“They will burn,” Asaf replied. “Set fire to them. Now.”

The other three did as they were told, and the bodies caught fire quickly, flaring with green and blue flame. Within moments, like the demon, they were nothing but ash.

“May those tortured souls find peace in the Lord’s arms,” Thaddeus said, looking to where the body of the little girl had laid. He turned to Alden. “You’ve seen them before, haven’t you?”

Gunnar translated, and Alden nodded.

“This is something big, Thaddeus,” Asaf said. “That was no minor demon. A changeling who can raise the dead.”

“This mission is serious,” Gunnar said.

“All the Lord’s missions are serious,” Thaddeus replied.

“Just stop with that,” Gunnar said. “You know what I mean. Demons and the walking dead. And out in the open, not even worried about someone seeing them.”

“Where has Alden seen the undead?” Thaddeus asked, practically ignoring Gunnar’s concerns.

Gunnar sighed and asked Alden.

“In a village,” Gunnar translated. “All the men had been killed by the Normans, and then the women and children succumbed to disease. Those who did not die soon were hung. You saw the necks of the mother and daughter. He was sent out to the village by this king he keeps speaking about, and when he and the other hearthguards with him arrived, they found …”

“The walking dead,” Thaddeus said and looked back to where the mother and daughter had fallen.

“Thaddeus, they weren’t those people,” Gunnar said, putting a hand on the Greek’s shoulder. “Those people were already gone, their souls in heaven.”

“I know,” Thaddeus said, looking to Gunnar, and then Alden, and nodding. But he couldn’t get the image of the girl out of his head—not the twisted, broken husk of a girl attacking him, but what that pretty girl would have looked like in life.

“We can’t camp here,” Thaddeus said.

“No,” Gunnar agreed.

“We’ll ride through the night,” Thaddeus said. “We should make Chesterfield by morning.”

CHAPTER 5

A S THEY RODE SOUTH, Thaddeus couldn’t tell Gunnar was arguing with Alden.

“What’s the matter?” Thaddeus asked.

“I referred to Alden as a Northumbrian,” Gunnar explained, “and he keeps telling me he is, in fact, not a Northumbrian but a Mercian. I don’t understand what the difference is.”

Thaddeus laughed.

“What is so funny?” Gunnar asked.

“You are a Swede, are you not?”

“You know I am,” Gunnar replied.

“And, as a Swede, did you at one point worship the same gods as the Danes?”

“Yes,” Gunnar said.

“And did you hold the same customs?” Thaddeus asked.

“For the most part.”

“And did you speak the same language?”

“There was some difference, but mostly, yes,” Gunnar said.

“So, I should just call you a Dane, yes?” Thaddeus said.

“If you want your head split in two,” Gunnar said and then laughed, understanding Thaddeus’ explanation. Thaddeus laughed too.

“Now you see, Mercians and Northumbrians are not the same, just as Swedes and Danes are not the same.”

Gunnar grinned again and reached out a hand to Alden. The Saxon looked at him for a moment and then smiled as he accepted the apology.

As silence descended once more, Thaddeus stared off into the distance, watching the undulations of a green hillside to the south, glimpsing the tall sparse trees—old and giant—making up the borders of a thick forest. He looked to the sky, grey and cold as the rain fell lazily, almost like a mist. In the breeze, it was cold but felt refreshing in between intermittent gusts of wind. He remembered hills and forests like that, people living in those places, under those skies.

“Damn this,” Asaf muttered.

“What?” Thaddeus asked.

“This,” Asaf said, lifting his hands. “Riding at night. This place. This mission.”

“Do you have something else in mind?” Thaddeus asked. “Is there some other place you need to be?”

“No,” Asaf muttered.

“Then stop complaining my canonical friend and enjoy this fine English weather.” Thaddeus laughed.

“Fine weather?” Gunnar exclaimed. “I would take the winters of Sweden over the cold, foggy, all-consuming drizzle that seems to fall all day, every day in this accursed place.”

“Accursed?” Thaddeus said with a smile. “This is God’s country.”

“It’s a rat turd,” Asaf said. “It’s a big rat fart smelling rat turd filled with backward people.”

“You are too harsh,” Gunnar said. “They are good people.”

“They are uncivilized,” Asaf said.

“The Greeks and the Romans tossed that term about quite a bit,” Thaddeus said and smiled at the memory.

“Tossed what term about?” Gunnar asked.

“Uncivilized,” Thaddeus replied. “Barbarian. They called many people by those names as they burned and crucified and stoned and slaughtered them. The barbarism of the Greeks and the Romans overshadowed all they labeled as such.”

“Come now, Thaddeus, I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant, Asaf,” Thaddeus replied, “but we must remember, these are only people, like any other people. Light or dark hair, light or dark skin, whatever language they speak, God has summoned us here to—what I suspect—help these people. This makes them very important to our Lord and, therefore, civilized … whatever that word really means.”

“And those men who are not Christians?” Gunnar asked.

“We show them the love and kindness the civilized Romans failed to show our Lord and Savior and, hopefully, they come to know the joy found in our Lord,” Thaddeus replied.

Passing through the barren farmlands, within another hour, they saw buildings that Alden told them was Chesterfield. The dawning sun highlighted either forests or large, open and communal farmlands surrounding the town, but the fields looked fallow, despite it being late spring. With the remnants of the Roman fort on which it was built still very much present, a wall surrounded much of the town and the gate leading into it. It looked to be void of the original gate and had a watchtower only slightly taller than the wall.

“This looks familiar,” Thaddeus said with a smile.

“A good memory,” Asaf said, the tone of his voice unusually soft and pleasant.

“It reminds me of my first post,” Thaddeus replied.

Thaddeus could see most of the people were Anglo-Saxon, and when they saw them—a broad-shouldered Greek with olive skin and a dark beard, a giant of a Norseman, and a curly haired, brown skinned Jew—the townspeople hurried inside their simple homes or looked away if shelter wasn’t available.

Riding past the manor house, it looked unoccupied at the moment, with naught but servants tending to the front gardens, which looked as bad as the barren farmlands. A church sat towards the center of the town, and as they rode towards it, a small man, especially for a Saxon, with white hair and a wide, white, bushy beard, heavyset with age, limped towards them. Alden spoke to Gunnar quickly before dismounting and walking towards the old man.

“He is the old chieftain of this town,” Gunnar said.

“A Saxon?” Asaf asked.

“He is no longer chieftain,” Gunnar explained, “but apparently many of the Anglo-Saxon people still look to him for guidance. Alden said we should wait here.”

Alden and the old man spoke for a long time, at times seemingly arguing, until Alden returned and spoke to Gunnar.

“Does Alden owe this man allegiance?” Thaddeus asked.

“No,” Gunnar replied, “but I guess he was letting this chieftain know he was here, out of respect. His allegiance is to this king he keeps talking about, but really, I believe it is to the bishop whom he is taking us to see.”

“Is this so-called king a member of some former Saxon royal family?” Asaf asked.

“I thought they all fled to Ireland or Byzantium,” Thaddeus said.

“Most of them did,” Gunnar replied. “At least, that’s what Alden says. But this man has stayed hidden in Britannia with the hopes they might regain control of the country from the Normans.”

“Truly?” Thaddeus asked.

“Truly,” Gunnar replied.

“Fools,” Asaf said.

“Would you chide a man for not wanting to regain control of his country?” Thaddeus asked.

“I would scold a man for hoping for something when all hope is gone,” Asaf replied.

Thaddeus just shook his head.

“This can’t be our mission,” Asaf said. “To help some deposed royal family to regain the throne of a lost country.”

“We need to teach this Saxon more Latin,” Thaddeus said as Alden remounted his horse, “so you don’t have to constantly translate.”

“Why don’t you just learn the language of the Angles?” Gunnar asked.

“Preposterous,” Asaf guffawed.

Gunnar laughed, as did Thaddeus.

“We could,” Thaddeus replied, “although I wonder how long his language will survive as the Normans conquer his people.”

“I will start teaching him,” Gunnar said.

“Your Latin is terrible,” Asaf said.

“Well enough for you to understand,” Gunnar replied, laughing. “Would you prefer to teach him Greek? Or, even better yet, Hebrew?”

Asaf waved the Norseman off with a nonchalant hand and then asked if the shire was still held by Saxons.”

“I don’t think so,” Thaddeus said. “Gunnar, ask Alden.”

Gunnar did, and Alden shook his head before replying.

“He says, in order to maintain peace, since William Rufus became king, he has allowed many Saxon lords to remain in power and keep their lands,” Gunnar explained. “In some places, like Chesterfield, he has even allowed the locals to police and govern themselves. But the lord of this shire is a man named William Peverell, a close friend of William Rufus’ father. Alden says Peverell’s mother was a Saxon noble and, so, he has been rather kind to the Anglo-Saxon people.”

“Interesting,” Thaddeus muttered.

Many of the roads in Chesterfield were cobbled, more evidence of the Romans, and all roads appeared to lead to a marketplace adjacent to the church.

“That is not Roman,” Asaf said.

“No, it is not,” Thaddeus replied.

“All Saints’ Church,” Gunnar translated as Alden spoke to him. “A recent gift from both William Peverell and King William Rufus. That is where we must go and meet whomever we are supposed to meet.”

It seemed most of the citizens of Chesterfield gathered in the marketplace, buying and selling goods, or just congregating. Again, Thaddeus and Gunnar and Asaf did not go unnoticed; they were foreigners there, and foreigners had changed these people’s lives forever. Some whispered, some talked loudly, some shouted. After Alden dismounted again, he seemed to argue with several men, and when one of them pushed Alden and bent low to pick up a rock, all sound in the marketplace stopped.

Gunnar poised the tip of his spear at the man’s chest and said something in the language of the Angles. The man dropped the rock and stepped back. Alden looked up at Gunnar, nodded quickly, and then jerked his head, signaling for them to follow.

Two men wearing Saxon mail and holding long spears stood in front of the church. They looked at the three strangers warily

“Is it common for armed soldiers to guard churches here in Britannia?” Asaf asked.

“I don’t think so,” Thaddeus replied. “Why are you asking me?”

“Haven’t you been here before?” Asaf asked.

“That was many years ago,” Thaddeus replied, “before the churches.”

“They are on guard,” Gunnar said, “worried.”

“I imagine so,” Thaddeus said.

Alden turned around to face Thaddeus, putting his forefinger to his lips, and Thaddeus nodded. The three warriors dismounted, handing their reins to one of the guards, hearthguards like Alden, and the other opened the front door of the church.

“No cloister?” Asaf asked.

“No,” Thaddeus replied, shaking his head. “Saxon churches are much simpler constructions.”

As the men passed through the narthex, they each dipped their fingers into a small baptismal font and made the sign of the cross on their foreheads. A familiar scent of incense hit Thaddeus’s nose, and he smiled.

The church was empty, save for a monk adjusting something on the altar at the far end of the church, his back to the men. Thaddeus brought his hand to the handle of his sword.

“Be aware,” he said.

“What are you doing?” Asaf asked. “You would draw your blade in the house of God?”

“This man is no Angle, nor is he a Saxon,” Thaddeus replied in Greek.

“How do you know?” Gunnar asked.

“His head is shaved,” Thaddeus replied.

“Like any monk,” Asaf added.

“Like any Roman monk,” Thaddeus said.

Thaddeus grabbed Alden’s arm. He didn’t speak the man’s language, but the look he gave the Saxon said everything he needed to.

“Where God builds a church,” Thaddeus said in Greek, “the Devil builds a chapel.”

The monk seemed to continue to move—clean perhaps—things around the altar, although Thaddeus could tell the man shifted a bit as he spoke to him. He said the Gothic proverb again, this time in Latin.

The monk spun to face the warriors and Alden. Thaddeus could see the handle of a short sword poking through the man’s tunic.

“How dare you speak of the deceiver in the Lord’s house,” the monk said in Latin.

“Truly,” Thaddeus replied, “but who is the deceiver? You pretend to be an Anglican monk, and yet, you are not.”

“There was no pretense on my part,” the monk said, walking slowly down the steps leading to the altar and tugging on his graying beard, combed to a point. “It was merely an assumption on your part.”

“You sound like a Roman priest,” Asaf said.

“And you sound like a heretic,” the Roman replied.

“If you only knew, you son of a pig,” Asaf grumbled.

Thaddeus put his hand on Asaf’s shoulder.

“You sound like a Roman as well,” the priest said to Thaddeus, “although, you have the look of a Greek. And your friend … Norse I’d suggest. And your other friend, the one with the damnable tongue, he is surely Roman … at least, in some part.”

“Peace, my friend,” Thaddeus said.

“What is this about?” the Roman asked. “You are a long way from home.”

Alden spoke to the Roman priest. They went back and forth for a few moments. Alden was a hearthguard, with his well-crafted sword and his shirt of mail, but he was a young one, desperately in need of a bath. But as he spoke to this Roman priest, he seemed to command a great deal of respect. When he was done, the Roman looked at Thaddeus.

“Follow me,” the Roman priest said. “I will take you to Harold Godwinson.”

“Did he say Harold Godwinson?” Gunnar asked. “As in, King Harold Godwinson?”

Thaddeus just shrugged.

“Is it his ghost, then?” Gunnar asked.

“A son?” Asaf asked.

The Roman priest said nothing as they followed him. Even the Normans knew their conquest had dispersed the late King Harold’s family. Many of them fled to Ireland, but his younger son, birthed by Harold’s second wife and carrying the same namesake as his father, had fled to Norway, a welcomed guest of the Norwegian nobility along with his mother. Many suggested he was born after King Harold’s death, so it could have been possible he had returned to England in hopes of avenging his father and retaking the English crown for family Godwin.

“Maybe a grandson,” Thaddeus added.

“Silence,” the Roman priest said, and they obeyed.

CHAPTER 6

A  LARGE TAPESTRY of the Virgin Mary holding the infant Christ child hung from the ceiling to the floor in the north transept of the church. The Roman priest crossed himself and then pulled the tapestry aside, revealing a heavy, wooden door. He produced a key from within his robes, unlocked the door, and opened it.

“Lock it behind us,” the Roman priest said.

Thaddeus turned to see another man following them—large and tall with a sleeveless mail shirt and a shaved head. He nodded. The Roman then led the men to the sacristy, knocking twice on another door made of heavy oak and then opening it. The space beyond the door was dark, but the Roman entered anyway.

“Pax vobiscum,” the Roman priest said.

“Pax in Cristo,” a voice from within the darkness replied.

A tinderbox was used to light a single candle, revealing a man with most of his face covered by a mail coif and a conical nasal helm. Alden said something to Gunnar as Thaddeus gripped his sword’s handle.

“It will be all right,” Gunnar translated. “He asks us to trust him as he has trusted us.”

With the priest carrying the candle, they walked only a few more paces when they came to another door guarded by two more men. They opened the door, bowing to the Roman priest, revealing a well-lit room centered by a large, round table. Thaddeus didn’t notice much about the room, only the three men sitting at the round table. One had the look of a Greek and two of Anglo-Saxons.

Alden stepped forward and bowed before one of the Anglo-Saxons.

“Min Cyning,” Alden said.

He looked strong, perhaps in his early middle years. His bright hair was cut just above his shoulders and had a noble bob to it, and two drooping mustachios lay to either side of his mouth. As he bowed to Alden, he smiled and rubbed his chin, the scratchy sound revealing he hadn’t shaved in some days. He wore a red robe draped over his strong shoulders, clasped together by a fist-sized ruby.

“It is Harold Godwinson,” Gunnar said in disbelief.

“By the rood,” Asaf cursed, “I thought he was dead.”

“I am not King Harold,” the robed man said in Latin, “at least, not yet.”

“Your Grace,” Thaddeus said, bowing quickly. “I don’t understand.”

“I am his grandson,” the man said. “I am the son of Godwin Haroldson, son of Harold Godwinson. The good people of Chesterfield have taken me in and kept me hidden until we can once again rise up and overthrow the tyranny of the Normans.”

“We are not revolutionaries,” Asaf said, his tone harsh and angry. “We are holy warriors.”

“Is this why you brought us here, Alden?” Asaf asked. “To be a part of some damned revolution?”

“Indeed damned,” the Roman priest hissed, “Watch your tongue, especially in the house of our Lord.”

“Piss on this,” Asaf said. “Alden lied to us. You want us to help lead a damned revolution against the Normans!”

“You will shut your mouth,” the Roman priest said.

“Your reputation is renowned,” Harold Godwinson said, and his smile defused the tension.

“Is it?” Asaf asked, more quietly.

“And we know you do the Lord’s work,” Harold added. “Our very own Bishop Wulfstan has attested to that.”

Harold presented the other Saxon man, a white-haired man, skin wrinkled and sagging, but he looked to have been broad-shouldered at one time. He was the last, living bishop from the people of Britannia, ordained by Pope Alexander II. William the Bastard, the first Norman king of England, realized Wulfstan treated his diocese well, and his parishioners were generally obedient because of his leadership and kept him in his position as the highest officer of the English churches.

Thaddeus didn’t say anything. He nodded quickly to the bishop, who nodded back and simply listened.

“Taking back our lands is God’s work,” Harold said, “this much I know.”

“And you think God cares which turd rules a country?” Asaf asked.

“The Normans conquered Christian men,” Harold said, refusing to rise to Asaf’s bait, “and are committing atrocities to our people. Poor crops, torture and mass executions, the tearing down of holy relics … it can only be the work of the Devil. And the Roman church is sympathetic to our cause. That is why Theodo is here.”

Harold motioned towards the Roman priest with an open palm.

“And the Eastern Church is sympathetic as well,” Harold added, presenting the Greek. “This is Cyril. He is a Byzantine priest and has come to help advise us in our reclaiming of our lands.”

Thaddeus noticed a look between the Roman and Byzantine priests. Having the two in the same room was an oddity in itself. Almost forty years prior, in the year of our Lord 1054, a great schism occurred between the western and eastern churches and ever since the Romans and Byzantines had been at odds. Not that they weren’t before, but when Pope Leo excommunicated the Patriarch, Michael Cerularius, and the Patriarch, in turn, excommunicated the Pope. A clear divide occurred between the two churches with tension rising to points of violence at times.

Therefore, Thaddeus might have expected the look the two priests to give one another to be one of discord, even hatred, but the look they gave one another was one of worry and concealment. Something concerned them, but they were afraid to disclose it.

“And what of Alden?” Thaddeus asked.

“He is one of my housecarls,” Harold said, “loyal to House Godwin.”

“How did he know to find us?” Thaddeus asked.

“He didn’t,” Harold said again.

There was that look again, this time given not only between the two priests but Bishop Wulfstan and Alden as well.

“I sent him north, to speak with King Malcolm of Scotland to see if he might help us,” Harold explained. “Malcolm and my grandfather did not always see eye to eye, and the good Lord knows the Northumbrians and Scots have had their fill of fighting, but he harbored fleeing English when the Conqueror attacked, and the Normans’ have been hard on his people. We knew it might be a miracle, but we figured we might at least ask for Malcolm’s help. However, apparently Alden saw you three, and he thought you might be better tasked than Malcolm, at least for now.”

“To overthrow a king?” Thaddeus questioned. “How are we better tasked at such a thing than a whole nation?”

“Rather than raise an army,” Harold explained, “we will start with each shire. Richmond, known to us Saxons as Hindrelag, has been the greatest perpetrator of atrocities against the Saxon people. And, being in the north, we figure much easier to overthrow and control. Alan Rufus of Rennes was the Earl of Richmond, and he died just this year. His brother, Alan Niger is to take his place, but his other brother, Stephen, has assumed the position until his other brother reaches England from Brittany. Both Alans are dastardly men.”

“Isn’t the House of Renne Bretons?” Thaddeus asked. “Once hailing from these very lands.”

“They have forgotten their heritage,” Harold said. “It is said Alan Rufus even had an affair with my Aunt Gunnhild, but I know the truth.”

“What is the truth?” Thaddeus asked.

“He raped her,” Harold said, shaking his head. “The pious nun she was. She would have never given her purity over to such a man.”

There was yet another worried look exchanged between the priests and Alden.

“If we can take back Richmond before Alan Niger reaches England,” Harold said, “we have a chance. Malcolm may finally be convinced to join our cause, and the lands of Richmond are wealthy.”

“If it is God’s will,” Thaddeus said.

“How could it not be the Lord’s work?” Harold asked. “Look at what the Normans have done to my people.”

“The overthrow of one Christian king for another is rarely the Lord’s work,” Asaf said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

He looked to have finally raised Harold’s ire, but Wulfstan placed his hand on the prince’s wrist.

“You have much to do, yes?” Wulfstan asked, addressing Harold. “I will talk to these warriors. They will see the Lord’s hand in all this.”

Harold stood. He looked upset, but he gave Thaddeus and the priests a quick bow, now glaring at Asaf as he exited the room. When he motioned for Alden to follow, Wulfstan put up a hand.

“I would like Alden to stay, my lord,” Wulfstan said.

“Very well,” Harold said and left the room.

The three priests waited for a moment, then looked to one another and nodded.

“I apologize,” Bishop Wulfstan said, “for all the secrecy and pretense.”

“We are not here to overthrow the Normans, are we?” Thaddeus asked.

“No,” Wulfstan replied. “But what the Lord has tasked you to do in this land is beyond the zealous prince.”

“So, you did send Alden to look for us?” Asaf asked.

“Yes,” Wulfstan replied.

“How do you know who we are?” Gunnar asked.

“You have a reputation in the church,” Cyril, the Byzantine Priest, said. “The name Thaddeus Christopoulos of Laconia is well known in certain, small circles as are Gunnar Sigurdsson and Asaf Segal. We are well aware of your blessing.”

“Holy Warriors who defy age and are hundreds of years old,” Theodo, the Roman Priest, said. “How could we not know about you? Although, if I knew better, I would think such a thing was dark magic.”

“Theodo,” Wulfstan said with a scolding hiss.

The Roman Priest bowed.

“It is true the Normans have been committing atrocities against the Saxon people,” Wulfstan said, “especially here in the north. But it isn’t because the conquerors are Normans and the conquered are Saxons. They are being influenced by the Devil … rather, an agent of the Devil.”

“A demon?” Gunnar asked. “We saw one and sent it back to the underworld. We also saw it had possessed the walking dead.”

“No, it’s worse I’m afraid,” Wulfstan said and shot concerned looks to both Theodo and Cyril. “You must understand, Count Stephen of Tréguier is only the temporary Lord of Richmond Castle in Hindrelag until Alan Niger returns from Brittany. Stephen is a ruthless warrior and comes from a long line of notable knights, all loyal to the Dukes of Normandy, but they are fair rulers, treating the people of Hindrelag with a just hand and respect, even allowing them to keep many of their local laws and leaders. They are Bretons after all, at least partially, traditionally fair rulers. That was, until only a few years ago …

“Alan Rufus, without any due cause, started mass executions and enslaving the Saxon people. He stripped men who could trace their land rights to Danish rule of their title, men whose lands and titles had been upheld by William I. He had them beaten and tortured, and had their wives and daughters raped. Some even suspected him, before his death this past winter, of eating the flesh of men and drinking blood.”

“Paul’s balls!” said Asaf. “What devilry is this?”

“And what does King William have to say about this?” Thaddeus asked.

“Nothing,” Wulfstan replied. “He doesn’t know. As far as he knows, the House of Renne have remained law-abiding men and the citizens of Hindrelag, and that they, despite being Saxons and Danes, have followed Norman law as well. William is away in France dealing with his brother, Robert, or dealing with the pope.”

“So where do you think all this despicable behavior has come from?” asked Thaddeus.

“We believe the court at Richmond is being plagued by a witch,” Wulfstan replied quietly.

Thaddeus shook his head; he had expected something like this from his dream … the woman. Witches could be simple herb gatherers living a life of a hermit and brewing odd concoctions they claimed to cure blindness and achy joints. Or they could stand at the Devil’s right hand, poisoning the minds of leaders and lengthening the shadow of evil. Practicing the darkest of magic, empires had fallen under the influence of witches. If this was the mysterious woman in his dreams, she was a powerful one. Her entering his mind meant she probably knew of his presence already.

“Your blessing …” Wulfstan began to say, but Asaf cut him off.

“More like curse,” the Jewish priest said.

“I suppose it depends on how you look at it,” Wulfstan said. “Nonetheless, as the Lord has undoubtedly called you to England, He has also given me dreams, preparing me for your arrival. I knew you would be here.”

“Alden?” Thaddeus asked.

“Ah, yes, our friend Alden,” Wulfstan said. “A skilled warrior and tracker. And, yes, his family had served the Godwin family for quite a while. He is not really Harold’s huscarl. It is pretense, and I ask God’s forgiveness for creating such a lie, but it was necessary. He is a servant of the church here in England and does my bidding. He is a holy warrior in his own right, even though he doesn’t bear the same blessing as you.”

Alden stepped forward and bowed.

“Does he know Latin?” Gunnar asked.

“More than he perhaps has let on,” Wulfstan said, managing a wry smile.

“And you sent him to find us?” Thaddeus asked.

“I did,” Wulfstan replied, “and as you complete this task for our Lord, you continue our ruse in convincing Prince Harold we are trying to regain control of England.”

“That will never actually happen, will it?” Thaddeus asked.

“No,” Wulfstan replied.

“So, you want us to kill a witch?” Asaf asked, sighing deeply and rolling his eyes.

“The Lord wants you to kill a witch,” Wulfstan said. “That is a tall task, but for three Holy Warriors, especially one such as yourself … a man of the cloth, it shouldn’t be impossible.”

“You were a monk?” Theodo asked.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Asaf replied, “but yes, I was a monk. No longer.”

“A bishop-elect,” Bishop Wulfstan added.

“Christ’s bones,” Theodo muttered.

“Who’s the foul-mouthed cur now?” Asaf asked.

“That is a story for a different time, however, eh, Asaf Segal of Jerusalem?” Wulfstan said.

Asaf bowed.

“If this witch has brought demons with her, has the ability to spoil fertile soil, and can raise the dead,” Thaddeus said, “she is indeed powerful and a true servant of the Devil. We will need some time.”

“Unfortunately, that is something we don’t have,” Wulfstan said. “Her power grows with each passing day. And I cannot stay here or go with you to help. King William thinks I am in Canterbury, and he is already suspicious of me, secretly accusing me of being a Saxon sympathizer.”

“Are you?” Thaddeus asked.

“I am a leader of Christian men,” Wulfstan said, “so yes. But I am also a sympathizer of Normans. William II is not known for the same logical level-headedness as his father. He is short-tempered and flamboyant. Regardless of my status as Bishop, if King William knew I was here, supposedly conspiring against him—even though I really am not—it would mean my death and the destruction of my dioceses.”

“The longer we wait,” Cyril added, “the longer this witch has to do her master’s work and poison this blessed land.”

“Calling this land blessed is the same as calling a whore pure,” Asaf muttered, but only Thaddeus heard him.

“This witch is probably a high priestess in a coven’s court. Defeat her, and it is possible this might fulfill your oath to the Lord,” Wulfstan said. “He may lift your obligation and allow you to pass away from this world with the rest of us.”

“Truly?” Gunnar asked, seemingly paying his first interest in their mission.

That would be a blessing, and Thaddeus smiled at the thought. Rest. He never imagined he would covet it so.

“We will do it then,” Thaddeus replied. “We will rid England of this witch.”

“We will, will we?” Asaf asked.

CHAPTER 7

“WE CAN’T GO AFTER A WITCH,” said Asaf when the three were gathered in the nearby barn where they intended to camp. It would make a change from sleeping in the open if it rained at night again.

“Why not?” Gunnar asked.

“We aren’t equipped to do such a thing.” Asaf stopped fiddling with the buckle to the saddle to his horse, giving Thaddeus a look mixed with irritation and bewilderment.

“We have a man of the cloth with us,” Gunnar said with a smile. “Isn’t this the sort of thing God wants you to do?”

“Priests do a little more than just hunt witches, thank you very much,” Asaf replied. “And besides, I’m a defrocked priest.”

Thaddeus didn’t answer. He barely even moved, save for slow scraping of a whetstone down the edge of his sword, filling the air with a scratchy, grating sound. He watched as the stone passed easily over the edge of the blade, as its sharpness glimmered with each stroke, and as the water sparkled along the broad steel, a dullish gray with wavy lines, fashioned for him near the Indus Valley.

“Why is this witch here, do you think?” Gunnar asked, moving to sit on a bale of hay.

“How are we supposed to know the motivations of a witch?” Asaf replied.

“No,” Thaddeus said, “but to affect a whole region … a whole country even. That seems a large undertaking for an evil minion who is normally motivated by nothing more than selfish ambitions.”

“Maybe she just has very high selfish ambitions,” Asaf said.

“As Wulfstan suggested, she might be a high priestess in a coven of witches,” Thaddeus said. “While this land might not be in turmoil, it is in a very uneasy state. Exacerbating that would be highly attractive to Satan and those who do his bidding.

“Have you ever dealt with a coven?” Gunnar asked.

The Norseman had not been serving God as long as Asaf and Thaddeus, and there were things from the underworld, from the Devil’s minions, he had not seen, and they had.

“No,” Thaddeus replied. “But one witch is dangerous enough. If this woman is a high priestess, chances are, she isn’t the only one here.”

“And the demon and walking dead?” Asaf asked.

“Either controlled by the witch,” Thaddeus replied, “or sent to aide her.”

“A damnable situation,” Asaf muttered.

Thaddeus gave Asaf a sidelong glance over his shoulder.

“Do you think this could be it?” Gunnar asked. “Do you think God might release us from our Holy mission after killing this witch?”

“I don’t know,” Thaddeus replied. “I could only hope.”

“I would say so,” Gunnar said. “It has been the longest for you.”

Nine hundred years, Thaddeus thought.

“Barely,” Asaf replied. “It won’t matter for me. I’m buggered no matter what.”

“You don’t think you’ll meet God?” Gunnar asked. “Even after this?”

“I’m a defrocked cleric,” Asaf answered again, fisted hands now on his hips. “I have little hope for that, regardless of what I do. I think He is toying with me.”

“Watch your tongue, Asaf,” Thaddeus said. “That is too much, even for you. We each have to bear this curse … this blessing, because we deserve it. Do it with gladness and humility and welcome heaven, when it comes, with joy in your heart. If this is it, then so be it, and I praise the Lord for such a gift. If we must wait another five hundred years, then so be it, and I will still praise the Lord for such a gift.”

“Even if the Lord doesn’t release us of our obligation,” Gunnar said, “this witch very well might kill us. That would serve just as well.”

“Perhaps,” Thaddeus said. “But if that would be the case, then would we meet the Lord in the afterlife.”

“I do not wish to consider that option,” said Gunnar with a rare look of fear on his face. “So, what do we do?”

Thaddeus looked at his Scandinavian friend. As true with most of the men from the northern reaches, he was a big, brutish man who looked to have no room for sentimentalities and compassion, let alone fear and worry, but there were times when Gunnar showed his humanity and the fact he had thrown off the burden of his people’s ways many years ago. When a man who was a head taller than most, twice as wide as most, and as strong as any ox—with a yellow beard and long, yellow braided hair making him look like a lion of Africa—showed fear, it was humbling.

“We go to Richmond and kill a witch,” Thaddeus said with a smile. “We do what we do best … We do the good Lord’s work.”

With that, Thaddeus left them to meet again with Wulfstan.

CHAPTER 8

“WE WILL GO TO RICHMOND,” Thaddeus said, “in search of this witch.”

“Very good,” Wulfstan replied. “I pray the good Lord will bless you on this journey.”

“I pray the good Lord will find this journey pleasing in His eyes,” Thaddeus said, “and release me from my curse.”

“I understand, being just you and me,” Wulfstan replied, “that you are speaking frankly, and I appreciate your leadership, but be careful what you call a curse.”

“Well said, my lord,” Thaddeus said with a quick bow. “A witch who can control the dead and demons … a frightening notion.”

Wulfstan stood and hobbled to a small bookshelf holding perhaps a dozen books, a wealth in the lands of Britannia. Running a finger over the spines of the books, the bishop stopped at one and retrieved it. Coming back to the table around which he and Thaddeus sat, the holy man set the book down. The cover was simple with script Thaddeus didn’t recognize.

“This is no easy task,” Wulfstan said, opening the book carefully.

He gave a mirthless smile when he came to a page and spun the book around so that Thaddeus could see. One page bore more of the script Thaddeus didn’t recognize, and the other page had the drawing of a naked woman, her breasts large, her sex shaven and naked, and her face alluringly beautiful.

“This is a book from the Hindu empires, specifically the Gupta Empire, around the year of our Lord 450,” Wulfstan said. “Have you ever been?”

“Just in the north, near the Indus River, Your Excellency,” Thaddeus said with a quick shake of the head. “It is where I received the gift of my sword.”

“Surprising,” Wulfstan said, “given your blessing.”

“What is this language?” Thaddeus asked, ignoring the bishop’s assumption he was blessed.

“It is called Sanskrit,” Wulfstan replied. “It is a language influencing many other languages, including Persian.”

“I have never seen it before,” Thaddeus replied, “although I am sure, in all my travels, I have heard it spoken. Why have I never seen it before?”

“The church in the west has suppressed many writings in Sanskrit,” the bishop explained, “because of its relation to the pagan worship of Central Asia. This is a book of the many mythologies in the east. This is a drawing of a Hindi witch.”

“A Hindi witch?” Thaddeus asked.

“The Devil has his hand all over the world and has infiltrated many different cultures under the guise of this deity or that. Today, there is no place better to see such a thing than England. The indigenous peoples of this land have worshiped all sorts of demons—all Lucifer by a different name.”

“I see,” said Thaddeus, remembering a time when he had visited Britannia before it had joined Christendom.

“But, of course, you know that better than I,” the bishop said.

Thaddeus gave a quick smile.

“Witches can be powerful,” Wulfstan continued. “The one in this book—and the reason why I am showing it to you—was extremely powerful, regarded as a goddess. In truth, she was the High Priestess of a witches’ coven and one of the mightiest the east had ever seen. This one, here in England, I fear, is just as powerful—the way she has twisted the House of Rennes, including Alan Rufus and Count Stephen and the Norman people who serve them faithfully. You must be on guard. As you have lived a long time, so might she. This could be same witch,” he added, his finger pointing to the illustration before closing the book.

“Your Excellency,” Thaddeus replied, “I mean no disrespect, but I have battled many powerful servants of the Devil in my time.”

“I am sure you have,” the bishop replied, “including demons.”

“Verily,” Thaddeus replied.

“A witch can be stronger than a demon, depending,” Wulfstan said. “A witch can control demons, even, as you have seen with this one. So be at your most watchful. A witch, as you can see from this book, has many nefarious tools at her disposal, most notably, her sex. I am sure this is what first entranced Alan Rufus and now Count Stephen of Tréguier.”

Thaddeus stood.

“By the Grace of God,” he said with a bow, “I live to serve.”

“I am sorry, Thaddeus Christopoulos,” the bishop said, “but I do not have anything to give you that might help you on this journey. Only my blessing.”

“That is enough, Most Reverend Wulfstan,” Thaddeus replied, and with that, Wulfstan stood on unsteady legs, placed his hands on Thaddeus’s head, made the sign of the cross, and prayed.

†

PRINCE HAROLD WAS WAITING for Thaddeus when the warrior stepped out of the church. Two men stood next to Harold, along with his normal retinue of guards.

“I have asked one of my thanes to go with you, Thaddeus,” Harold said. “This is Brant.”

A blond-haired man stepped forward, lean, and well-muscled. He looked a man of middle years and held himself as any aristocrat would, shoulders back, spine straight, and chin high. The Saxon thanes were the equivalent of the Norman knights, minor nobles and lords who controlled land, held title, and demanded a certain amount of respect from the peasantry and nobility alike. This Saxon knight, with his shirt of mail, his conical helm tucked under his left arm, and a long sword sheathed at his side, looked an adept warrior. He had seen battle, and recently by the looks of his shield which had chips along its edges.

“He has served me well,” the prince continued, “and is a good Christian man who can speak and read Latin. And this is his huscarl, Jarvis, a good man who has served my family well also.”

A younger man, also lean and well-muscled, a reddish, ruddy tint to his darker hair, bowed from behind Brant. He was tan skinned, which spoke to his time in the fields, even in the sunless world of Britannia. He reminded Thaddeus of the young men back home, in Peloponnesus. The Saxon huscarl was probably much like a Norman squire, with no hope of ever achieving a status beyond a personal soldier of a knight, even though most came from well-respected families. Jarvis would never truly own lands or carry a title. He might achieve great success and notoriety as a warrior, but he would always be the property of his thane, presently, this man Brant. Perhaps a generation ago, Jarvis would not have been a house guard. He didn’t look like he was of aristocratic birth and didn’t carry himself like Brant, but these times were desperate for the Anglo-Saxons.

“Jarvis can limp his way through a conversation in Latin,” Harold said, “although, I doubt you will be speaking to him much.”

“I can help with his Latin education,” Thaddeus said, “if it pleases Brant.”

The thane just gave Thaddeus a haughty look over his long nose and rolled his eyes.

“I am sure that will be well received,” Harold said. “I wish I could lend you more, although Thane Brant is as capable as a dozen men. You can imagine we have few men to spare.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Thaddeus said. “Brant will do. He looks like a fine warrior.”

After the prince stepped to one side to speak directly to his guards, Thaddeus bowed to the thane, but the nobleman didn’t reply in kind.

“When shall we leave?” Thaddeus asked.

“I would like to leave in the morning,” Brant said. “I have some things I need to attend to before we depart. The journey to and from Hindrelag may take several weeks, and I have to ensure my household will run smoothly in my absence.”

“Your wife and children?” Thaddeus asked with a smile.

“I have never found a woman I can stand for any length of time,” Brant replied, mouth flat and eyes nonchalantly staring at something else, “and I don’t have any children … at least that I know of.”

“So be it,” Thaddeus replied. “Come, let me introduce you to my companions, the men you will be traveling with.”

“I will meet them soon enough,” Brant replied. “I am a busy man and—”

Shouting cut the thane off. Jarvis moved in front of the thane, sword drawn, but Brant pushed the huscarl out of the way.

“I can’t see, you fool,” Brant hissed. “You think I am afraid of a few brawling peasants?”

Thaddeus watched as several men engaged in a scuffle, right in the middle of the village’s market. The two men attracted others to the fight, and tensions ran high until there was a full-on brawl. Within moments, a bell rang from somewhere behind Thaddeus, and he saw armed men—the local militia—rushing to the fight, yelling and pulling people away. It didn’t seem anyone was hurt badly; some bloody noses, cut brows, and one man cradled his arm.

“What was that about?” Thaddeus asked no one in particular.

“Mercian and Northumbrian dogs,” Brant said with a sneer. “They’re always causing trouble.”

“They have trouble getting along?” Thaddeus asked.

“Can a dog ever really be more than a dog?” Brant asked in reply. “You can feed it, bathe it, treat it as a member of your family even, but the minute it snaps at you, you must kill it. It will never truly be a man.”

“And that is how you feel about both the Northumbrians and the Mercians?” Thaddeus asked. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the prince was now listening to their conversation.

“All of them,” Brant replied, looking over his nose with an air of condescension. “The Anglicans and the Essexers too; Harold thought he could unify them. Even though he, just as I, hailed from the noble kingdom of Wessex, how do you unify animals? That is what did him in. We could have defeated the Normans if it wasn’t for them. By Christ’s Blood, we could have deterred the Norman invasion if he had shown some balls, culled the animals of this country, and ruled as a king should. It is what will be William Rufus’ downfall. He allows too much leniency.”

“Do many Wessexers feel the way you do?” Thaddeus asked, wondering if Brant felt the same way about him and his companions.

“If they do not, then they are not truly Wessexers,” Brant replied. The Saxon knight grunted and scowled as the militia carted several men away. “Tomorrow just after sunrise?”

“Yes,” Thaddeus said with a smile and a bow.

This time, Brant returned the favor and walked away, Jarvis, his huscarl, close on his heels. Thaddeus was about to return to the barn when the prince appeared at his side.

“A quick word,” Harold said as Brant and Jarvis walked away through the town square, daring people to get in their way.

“Of course, Your Highness,” Thaddeus replied.

“Brant is a strong warrior, and loyal and sympathetic to our cause,” Harold explained, “and he is a proud Wessexer.”

“I can see that,” Thaddeus said.

“He will prove an invaluable ally on this journey,” Harold said. “He is the best I can offer you as a man in a fight, but he is a bigot. He believes we Wessexers are immensely superior to the other Anglo-Saxons here in England. He has been, at times, rather harsh with other Saxons, especially Mercians. Extend him a bit of grace on your travels.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Thaddeus said as he bowed.

Thaddeus walked past the humble home behind which stood the barn, nodding and smiling at the half dozen children playing in the front, chasing after a chicken and slinging mud pies at one another. They scattered when their mother appeared in the doorway, scolding them loudly. When she saw Thaddeus, she curtseyed, and Thaddeus bowed. Harold Godwinson had offered this home to Thaddeus and his companions as long as they stayed, but they had already spoken to a farmer and agreed to camp behind his simple house. With eight children to feed, both the husband and wife were grateful for the gesture and a little extra money.

“What is that look for?” Gunnar asked as Thaddeus walked into the barn, watching carefully to avoid stepping in pig shit.

“Sorry,” Thaddeus replied. He hadn’t realized he was frowning as he thought of the brawl in the town center. “I was just thinking about a fight that broke out in the market square, and something Brant said to me.”

“Who is Brant?” Asaf asked.

“A thane to Prince Harold,” Thaddeus replied, noticing that Alden had joined the other two. “He will be traveling with us to Richmond.”

“A thane!” Asaf exclaimed. “Does he have a stick up his ass like most aristocrats?”

“That he does,” Thaddeus said, reluctantly.

“And what did this thane have to say?” Asaf asked.

“The fight that broke out,” Thaddeus said, “was between some Mercians and Northumbrians.”

“So?” Gunnar said.

“Brant called them dogs,” Thaddeus said. “He said they were animals. It reminded me of the Romans.”

“There are many people who remind me of the Romans,” Asaf said with a scowl.

The mention of Mercians and Northumbrians caused Alden to perk up.

“I fear this land needs the Normans,” Thaddeus said.

“What do you mean by that?” Asaf asked. “It has had them for almost thirty years already.”

“I fear this land remains in need of someone who can unify it,” Thaddeus expounded. “It is fractured. It always has been. The Normans can unify it, but they need time. And support.”

“Unify it through what?” Asaf exclaimed. “Rape. Murder. By allying themselves with a heinous witch?”

“Conquest is always painful,” Thaddeus said, “and I am not justifying the horrors of war. But the Normans are, at the heart of it, good, Christian men.”

“Good Christian men who are allying themselves with a servant of the Devil,” Asaf said, “and heralding back to their heathen, Norse ways.”

“You little shit,” Gunnar said, making for Asaf.

Alden moved behind Gunnar, seemingly to back him up.

“Easy,” Thaddeus said, putting a hand in the middle of Gunnar’s chest. “Asaf, you forget yourself and your place. It is clear this witch has poisoned her way into the graces of this Count Stephen and his family like the snake she is. You cannot fault a man who has been unwittingly charmed by the enemy.”

“Can I not?” Asaf said, turning around and walking to a sitting spot. “Am I not faulted for the sins I have committed?”

“We all are,” Thaddeus said. “You know that. And there will certainly be repercussions for this Count Stephen and his brother Alan Niger upon his return from Brittany. But being influenced by the Devil does not mean they are not good men.”

“As you say,” Asaf said noncommittally, but seemingly appeased as he plopped onto the ground and uncorked a waterskin full of spiced wine.

“Ever since I have known this land,” Thaddeus said, “it has been wild and fragmented. The Normans may be exactly what it continues to need.”

†

THADDEUS GAVE the farmer’s wife a bag of smaller denomination coin he had exchanged for a gold one with the bishop. It was enough to make the family relatively wealthy in this land, and the woman would have carried on kissing Thaddeus’s hand if he had not pulled it away quite forcible.

They met Brant and his huscarl, Jarvis, in the center of Chesterfield. The thane met the warriors with the same look of haughtiness and air of superiority as he had the day before. When he saw Alden with them, his lip curled.

“Must you bring this dog with us?” Brant asked.

“Do you know one another?” Thaddeus said, a sarcastic smile growing on his face. “He is a member of the hearthguard and huscarl to Harold.”

“Yes, I know him,” the thane replied.

“You are not friends, then?” Thaddeus asked. “Acquaintances at least?”

Brant shot Thaddeus a hard look with pursed lips and squinted eyes.

“We are not friends,” Brant said. “I am a thane, and he is nothing but a huscarl … and lucky to be that.”

“Well,” Thaddeus replied. “He is our friend and, from now on, you will refer to him as Alden and not a dog.”

“Just because I do not refer to pig shit as pig shit does not make it anything but that,” Brant said, and before Thaddeus could reply, turned to his horse, mounted, and spurred his mount, not waiting for anyone else.

“That went well,” Gunnar said.

Thaddeus shrugged as they followed Brant out of Chesterfield and back into the open country. They headed north, towards the Borough of Richmond, some one hundred Roman miles away. Asaf rode up next to Thaddeus.

“Do you think he speaks Greek?” Asaf asked Thaddeus, speaking in Greek.

“No,” Thaddeus replied in the same language. “He probably thinks it’s beneath him.”

“Good,” Asaf said. “Be wary of this thane.”

Thaddeus gave his friend a questioning look.

“He is a pompous ass, that’s for sure,” Thaddeus said.

“It’s more than that. There is something about him,” Asaf said. “I think he might be more trouble than he is worth.”

“Why?” Thaddeus asked.

“Just be alert,” Asaf said. “Keep a watchful eye on him.”

CHAPTER 9

“DAMN THIS WEATHER,” Asaf said.

“Cursing will not make the weather change,” Gunnar said. “It has been this way for many years before us. It will be this way for many years after us.”

“What does that mean?” Asaf asked.

“It means stop your belly-aching,” Gunnar replied. “It doesn’t do anyone any good to complain about the weather.”

“What do you know you heathen churl,” Asaf said.

“Heathen? I’ll—”

“Oh stop it both you, you’re like a couple of old maids,” interrupted Thaddeus before he again wiped the rain from his face. It was coming down as a light drizzle but had been doing so for almost 24 hours. His eyes watched the flames of their campfire and he grabbed a wet twig and flicked it into the struggling fire, watching the flame sputter and smoke as the water in the wood sizzled.

Asaf still grumbled, but under his breath as he obeyed Thaddeus’ command.

The weather of Britannia was often cloudy and wet, with mild temperatures in the spring and summer and cold temperatures in the autumn and winter. It was certainly wetter, cloudier, and colder than Rome or Greece. But as they rode north, towards Yorkshire, Richmond, and Richmond Castle, the weather had worsened. The rain picked up, the air cooled, and the days shortened. In these lands, in the north, the days just seemed gray, and void of any color. There were no flowers, despite the springtime. Wildlife had vanished. Birds didn’t sing. Everything just looked … sad. It was a fact Thaddeus couldn’t ignore.

“Damned witch,” Thaddeus mumbled.

“What?” Brant asked.

“This weather,” Thaddeus said. “That’s all. It’s just wretched.”

“This is how the lands of dogs is,” Brant said. “Dark and dreary and wet, barbaric and, yet, boring. Hey, Mercian?”

As Brant used the word barbaric, Thaddeus thought he was just like the ancient Romans and Greeks. Alden paid the thane no attention, so Brant threw a branch at him.

“You should speak up when a man greater than you asks a question,” Brant said, laughing. “This land must be much like your mother. Boring, but always wet … wanting no men to settle there … all the time.”

Thaddeus looked quickly to Alden, who clenched his fists and looked ready to leap to his feet.

“That’s enough,” Thaddeus said.

“He doesn’t even understand what I am saying,” Brant said, presenting the Saxon with an open hand as if he were some spectacle. “The uneducated animal that he is.”

“I understand, you arrogant prick,” Alden said, standing.

Brant’s mouth dropped, and his eyes widened, but then narrowed again. Thaddeus motioned for Alden to sit down again.

“He is a quick learner,” Thaddeus said with a smile, thinking Alden knew more Latin than Wulfstan let on.

“Teach a dog manners,” Brant said, a frown crossing his face, “and he is still a dog.”

Thaddeus watched as Jarvis waited on Brant. He poured the thane spiced wine, but the Brant spat it out and threw the cup on the ground. Thaddeus had started to learn the Anglo-Saxon language, but as Brant scolded his personal soldier, he couldn’t make out what he was saying.

“He is upset the wine is cold,” Gunnar said. He must’ve seen Thaddeus watching the pair. “And it isn’t sweet enough.”

“Everything out here is cold,” Thaddeus replied. “Even our fire is cold.”

Gunnar just shrugged.

Brant kept nagging his huscarl as Jarvis tried to roast a chicken on the sputtering fire. When that didn’t work, the thane kicked his soldier and took the man’s dried crackers and dried meat instead, seemingly complaining about it the whole time he ate it. Jarvis finally sat, dejected and hungry.

“Rothres eow aetrihte!” Brant said to Alden, his voice elevated.

Thaddeus looked to Gunnar.

“He asked Alden what he was looking at,” Gunnar explained.

“Locian me, eower hund,” Brant said, standing, hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

“He called him a dog,” Gunnar explained.

Thaddeus stood.

“Enough,” he said, but Brant just looked at Thaddeus over his nose nonchalantly.

The thane turned back to Alden, pointing his finger at the Mercian and speaking harshly.

“I said …” Thaddeus said.

“I don’t care what you said,” Brant said in Latin. “You are not my lord. If anything, I should be your liege lord, and you should be following me.”

“I think not,” Asaf said.

Brant scoffed.

“We will see,” Brant said, sitting, kicking Jarvis, and cursing at his huscarl.

The rain had stopped when Thaddeus awoke. He saw their fire had died to several glowing embers, and he could feel the bite of the cold night on his nose. But it wasn’t the cold that had woken him. It was noise, scuffling, cursing. Thaddeus sat up quickly. Brant and Alden were gone.

“Gunnar. Asaf.”

His companions didn’t stir, but then he caught a silhouette standing at the edge of their camp. Thaddeus jumped to his feet and saw it was Jarvis, standing with his back to the glowing embers once their campfire. Thaddeus grabbed his sword and walked over next to Jarvis.

Jarvis spoke very little Latin, and Thaddeus had yet to grasp the language of the Angles, so he didn’t ask what the man was doing, but when he reached the thane’s personal soldier, he quickly saw what it was. Thaddeus saw, by the dim, English moonlight two men struggling with one another—Alden and Brant. Brant had rolled on top of Alden, straddled the man’s hips—pinning him to the ground—and began punching Alden in the face and chest and shoulders. Alden flailed about, trying to block some of the strikes and doing a decent job of at least deflecting the blows. Brant finally wrapped his hands around Alden’s neck, and Thaddeus could here quick gasps of air as Alden turned to clawing at the thane’s arms.

Brant had overpowered Alden, meaning he was a proven warrior, for Thaddeus had seen Alden fight and the man was an adept fighter. Brant was not just all talk. Thaddeus would truly have to be careful of the man.

Thaddeus’s hand went to his sword. He drew it and stepped forward. A hand shot out and pushed back against Thaddeus’s chest. It was Jarvis. The man shook his head.

“Ne,” Jarvis said.

Thaddeus understood his word for no. He shook his head and said, “Yise.”

Thaddeus grabbed Jarvis hand and removed it from his chest. The huscarl looked as if he would put up a fight, but then relented, seemingly not having the heart to challenge Thaddeus.

Thaddeus stepped forward, put a firm hand on the top of Brant’s mail shirt, and pulled him off Alden. The thane, now sprawled out on the ground, looked up at Thaddeus. Even in the dim moonlight, Thaddeus could see the hatred in the man’s eyes. Then, from a sidelong glance, he saw Alden get up and make for the thane. Thaddeus put a hand on Alden’s chest and shook his head.

“Who do you think you are?” Brant said, standing and brushing the mud from his clothes. “Don’t you ever put your hands on me again.”

“Or what?” Thaddeus said, stepping nose to nose with the thane. So close, he could see a growing welt just under the thane’s left eye, blood around his nose, and some discoloration along his forehead. “What will you do, Brant? You have no idea who I am, not that you care. You think you are better than me—than all of us—because you are a part of some lost nobility. You may think you are a better fighter, but do not cross me, thane.”

Brant gave a condescending sneer. He grabbed Thaddeus’s arm and gave it a quick squeeze.

“You think your muscles and your tanned skin and your dark beard and your rugged looks scare me?” Brant said. “You might scare the simple people of this country—men like that Mercian dog of yours—but you don’t scare me. Norsemen and Moors are much bigger than you, and I have killed plenty of them—dumb, brutish, barbaric animals.”

“I pity you,” Thaddeus said with an insincere smile. “You think you can read a man simply by the way he looks.”

Brant laughed and then said something to Jarvis. The huscarl bowed quickly and rushed to pick up the thane’s sword.

“Watch yourself,” Brant said, leaning in even closer to Thaddeus. He could smell spiced wine and salted meat on the man’s breath.

“I always do,” Thaddeus replied with a smile. This time it was genuine.

Brant again said something harshly to Jarvis and then jerked his head towards the dying campfire. Thaddeus hadn’t realized it, but Gunnar and Asaf now stood at the edge of the camp and watched them, Gunnar with his spear in hand and Asaf with his short sword. Brant paid them almost no mind, even making a point to pass in between them, bumping them both with his shoulders.

“What an arrogant rat turd,” Thaddeus said. He turned to Alden. “What happened?”

“He kicked my boot,” Alden replied with his best Latin. “Spat on my face. Called me dog. I am tired of it.”

“I don’t blame you,” Thaddeus replied. “You must be careful, though.”

With one eye already closing with swelling, Alden looked at Thaddeus with confusion. Thaddeus repeated himself, slower, and Alden nodded.

“He is a thane,” Thaddeus added. “He is a good fighter and knows how to use a sword.”

“As do I,” Alden said.

“Yes, I gathered as much,” Thaddeus replied, “but I think he knows how to use one better.”

Alden laughed as he wiped blood from his mouth.

“You teach me,” he said. Then he put his index finger in the middle of Thaddeus’ chest. “You’ll help me get better.”

Thaddeus looked to Gunnar and Asaf. They just stared back, both shrugging their shoulders.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Thaddeus replied. “I will train you.”

Alden bowed, grasping Thaddeus’s hand and shaking it firmly.

CHAPTER 10

T  HE DAY AFTER the fight between Brant and Alden was worse than the one before. The rain had intensified, the clouds had darkened, and the temperature grew colder. Thaddeus found a large elm they could rest under, its large, tall branches shielding them from some of the rain. Brant had stormed off, though, when he complained about sharing the space with the horses.

“They are damned horses!” Brant had yelled.

“And carry us to where we need to go,” Thaddeus had replied. “Would we not want to take care of them as we would any family member?”

“Where do you think he went?” Gunnar asked.

“I don’t really care,” Thaddeus replied.

“His poor house soldier,” Gunnar said.

“It is his choice,” Alden said, and he was correct.

Thaddeus knew in some cultures, like the Normans, most servants like Jarvis, whether they were a squire or house servant, had little choice in their station. But the Saxons viewed their service differently. Jarvis could have left. He might lose some face and credibility, he would certainly have to return his long sword and helm and mail shirt, but it might be worth it to avoid the verbal and physical abuse of Brant.

“Do we have to continue to put up with him?” Asaf asked.

“Unfortunately, I think we do,” Thaddeus replied. “He is Harold’s man.”

Thaddeus then looked to Alden.

“And then there is our Mercian friend,” Thaddeus said. “How is it you serve Harold in pretense, but he believes you are truly his man?”

“My grandfather served Earl Godwin and then King Harold,” Alden explained through Gunnar. “War had forced my family south, to East Anglia, and despite my grandfather’s Mercian blood, Earl Godwin was good to him, as was King Harold. My father was just a boy when my grandfather died, and Harold agreed to bring my father into his house.”

“Harold Godwinson truly sounds like he was a good man,” Thaddeus said.

“It depends on whom you ask,” Alden said, Gunnar still translating for him. “He treated my family well, as did his son Godwin, after his death at Hastings. And many would say if he had lived and defeated William the Conqueror, he would have been a good king. But the Confessor killed many who were not Wessexers in order to unify England, and Harold supported him. They were especially ruthless to the Danes, as they had much of Edward the Confessor’s family assassinated.”

“And this is how you became a house soldier to Harold?” Asaf asked.

“Godwin Haroldson took my father and mother with him to Ireland,” Alden explained. “It is where I was born. My father died when Godwin attempted to retake England, attacking Brian of Brittany, who is actually elder brother to Count Stephen and Alan Niger of Richmond Castle. My mother died the next year, leaving me, just an infant, with Harold and Godwin’s widow. In a way, Harold’s mother raised me, or at least her household did, and when they secretly returned to England some years later, I was rewarded with the title of huscarl and hearthguard. It was the most I could ever expect, either under Norman or Saxon rule.”

“How is it you now truly serve Bishop Wulfstan?” Thaddeus asked.

“He saw me when I was a boy,” Gunnar translated, “and it was then he started giving me menial tasks to complete for him. Take this letter to this man. Feed the church’s horses. Eventually, I grew to trust him. When I became a man, he offered me a position as a warrior for the church. He said I would be doing God a great service. And I could still serve Harold as well. How do you turn that offer down? He educated me. Had warriors train me. It has been my honor.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Thaddeus asked.

Alden shook his head.

“In a way, Harold is my only family,” he replied, “and I am grateful for his companionship.”

“You are a good man, Alden,” Thaddeus said.

†

IT TOOK them six days to reach Richmond. The journey was relatively quiet, although Thaddeus could feel the tension continuing to rise between Brant and Alden. It rained all but one day and, on that one clear and somewhat dry day, it was so cold, Thaddeus did nothing but wish for his homeland of Laconia, where the sun kissed the land every day. He could almost feel the warmth, and when he closed his eyes, hear the gentle crashing of waves against the Spartan shores.

“This land is truly dead,” Asaf said as they rode past several other castle, all motte and bailey constructions, overseeing manors and a few towns like Chesterfield.

“Castle Tickhill, Conisbrough, and Pontefract are all gifts from William the Conqueror,” Brant explained, breaking his almost weeklong silence. “William lavished those who supported him, some Normans who invaded with the Duke and some Saxons and Britons who supported his invasion, with lands and titles and, of course, castles. The many gifted castles here in the north are further proof these people are animals with no loyalty.”

“Or they were tired of ruthless Wessexer rule,” Thaddeus added, to which Brant gave him a hard look with furled eyebrows.

Brant waved off the chiding Thaddeus.

“Our king,” Brant spat the word, “seems to think by making Saxons and Britons lords, and letting their local chieftains have some semblance of jurisdiction, it will make them more subservient. Look what good that has done.”

Thaddeus just shook his head. Evil, the Devil and his witch, poisoned this land. It had nothing to do with King William or Prince Harold or Normans or Saxons. A man possessed and influenced by the evil one was not himself. He was a shell of who he was.

It was hard to be subservient when a witch was poisoning the lords’ minds and you were being tortured every day.

Despite the infertility of the land, people still worked it, digging at nothing, slowly and methodically, like possessed shells of humans. An overseer watched here and there, but mostly, the Saxon people who served as serfs on these manors just dug and planted seed that would never grow.

“No different than the Romans and their slaves,” Asaf said, spitting as they rode along a decently maintained road butting against the fields of one such manor.

“We are all slaves,” Thaddeus said, “in some way or another.”

Thaddeus could see the curtain wall of Castle Richmond from far away, at least half a day’s ride. The walls were stone, a rarity in most places.

“William the Conqueror must have been worried about invasion this far north,” Thaddeus said, “to put so much money into the castle.”

“It was the design of Alan Rufus,” Brant explained, “reflecting that the people in these lands are animals and were always causing trouble. He calls his lands in the north the Honor of Richmond.”

“Oh, you mean the conquered didn’t like being conquered?” Asaf asked.

Brant ignored him.

“He was a kinsman to the Duke of Normandy, and his family is still extremely wealthy,” Brant said. “Richmond Castle is more of a spectacle than Winchester Castle, where William Rufus has established his court and capital.”

The castle itself sat along the shores of a river, one Brant and Jarvis called the River Swale.

“This reminds me of the Peloponnesus,” Thaddeus said.

“Truly?” Asaf asked. “With all this rain and cold?”

“Well, not that,” Thaddeus replied with a smile, “but the water, and the green grass around the river, in a way, reminds me of home.”

Thaddeus knew Yorkshire, the shire in which Richmond resided and parts of the former Kingdom of Northumbria were densely populated, but that term in northern Europe meant something very different than other parts of the world. Half a million people called the city of Rome home at one point, and almost as many called Constantinople home, but since the fall of the Western Empire, much of Europe found itself in disarray and a town of a hundred people with naught but a market, a church, a blacksmith, and a few roads might be considered a metropolis.

Walls surrounded Richmond, the city supporting Castle Richmond. Again, and unlike many of the walls around other cities in Northern Europe, these too were made mostly of stone. Thaddeus suspected they were the remnants of an old Roman fort, as so many of the other, standing walls in England were.

“Ten thousand people,” Brant said, “maybe more.”

Where old Roman stone couldn’t be used, a wooden gatehouse jutted forward from the southern wall, open and well-guarded by Norman soldiers.

“Is Richmond well trafficked?” Thaddeus asked.

“I suppose,” Brant replied with a shrug.

“That helps,” Asaf said, shooting the thane a dirty look.

“Even so, we don’t look like Normans,” Thaddeus said.

“Thank the Lord for that,” Brant added.

“So, Saxons and foreigners walking into a large city with swords and mail shirts might look suspect, don’t you think?” Thaddeus asked. “We should put together a plan.”

“What sort of plan do you have in mind?” Asaf asked.

“Brant, do you speak the language of the Normans?” Thaddeus asked.

“By Christ’s Blood!” Brant exclaimed angrily. “No, I most certainly do not!”

“Figures,” Gunnar said in Greek.

“We will speak the language of the Saxons,” Thaddeus said.

“English,” Brant said.

“Fine,” Thaddeus relented. “We will speak English, and those of us who do understand Frankish will pretend not to, except for Asaf.”

“For what reason?” Asaf asked.

“You will be a monk, visiting the local abbey,” Thaddeus said, looking to Brant.

“The name is Easby Abbey,” Alden said when Brant shrugged his shoulders.

“And where are we from?” Asaf asked, and Alden whispered to Gunnar.

“He suggests Saint Augustine’s Abbey is near Canterbury,” Gunnar explained. “No one here would recognize one of their monks.”

“And the Augustinians travel quite a bit,” Thaddeus mused, rubbing his chin. “It is a good plan.”

“Is it?” Asaf asked, looking rather irritated. “And who will you pretend to be?”

“Your escort and guard,” Thaddeus said.

“A Norman monk would have Saxons?” Asaf asked, his brows furled.

“It is the best plan,” Thaddeus said.

“This is a stupid plan,” Brant said.

“This is probably the only time I will agree with this man,” Asaf said.

“Nonetheless, it is the plan,” Thaddeus said. “God willing, it will work. Hide your mail shirts under your shirts and coats and your helms in your saddlebags. We can argue the spear and long swords are needed for protection in these troubled times.”

They stopped by a farmhouse a half mile from the gate. It seemed many of the city’s people lived outside the protective walls, but not ten thousand, so many of them certainly crowded the city as well. They changed behind the house, putting on extra shirts and extra thick coats to hide their armor. They dirtied their swords as if to suggest they were not cared for.

“I don’t like this,” Brant said as they walked towards the city gates, leading their horses.

“There is no other way,” Thaddeus said. “Once we get past the gatehouse, we will easily blend into a city of ten thousand people. We can drop the guise, and you can go back to being your old miserable self.”

“Business?” one of the guards asked in Frankish as they approached the gate. As Asaf responded, Thaddeus looked to Brant, over his shoulder. The thane didn’t know what they were saying and, as the moments went on, he looked nervous.

Please, Lord, close his mouth, if just for these few, short moments.

“We are on a pilgrimage, my son,” Asaf said, making the sign of the cross in front of him.

“A pilgrimage?” the guard asked. “To where?”

“All across this blessed land,” Asaf replied.

“Blessed land,” another guard chided, and all the men standing there laughed.

“You must truly be a godly man to find this land blessed,” the first guard said. “It is anything but. And its people are backward, and we’re so close to the Scots.”

“Jocks,” one man said, to which the whole lot of them laughed.

“I think I preferred Rufus’ harsher rule of the locals,” another guard said. “Keep these people in check. Show them who’s the real boss.”

“Hush,” another guard said. “Don’t speak of the dead count in such a way. Some say he died on unnatural causes.”

Asaf looked at Thaddeus over his shoulder, who in turn looked to Gunnar. And then to Brant, who shifted uneasily and began to sweat.

“Shut your trap,” the first guard said. “Count Stephen commands, and we obey. That’s all. We’re not paid to have an opinion.”

He turned to Asaf.

“Seems odd for a monk to be all the way up here, in Yorkshire, blessing people and taking Saxon peasants on a pilgrimage. And why the weapons?”

“I have been tasked with spreading the Good Word and blessing people in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,” Asaf replied, “And I have been caught out and robbed in the past, and there are many unfriendly people out there.”

He waved a hand loosely in the direction of the open countryside and then made the sign of the cross again. Thaddeus couldn’t help smiling inwardly as the defrocked priest played his part well. Outwardly, he looked bored and tired.

“We only wish to stay in Easby Abbey for a few days,” Asaf continued, “and meet and pray with the abbot.”

The guard looked over the group one last time, looked back at one of the other guards, and then nodded.

“Very well,” he said. “We’ll escort you to the abbey.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Asaf replied. “You are far too busy. We will be fine. Besides, what could happen to us in this city?”

“Clearly, you haven’t been here before,” the guard replied, “at least, not recently. Those swords might be useful.”

Then he shrugged.

“Suit yourself,” the guard said, “but say a few prayers before you go walking about. Most of the animals within these walls don’t care what kind of robes you’re wearing.”

“What were you talking about?” Brant asked coldly as they moved away towards the city.

“Just making small talk,” Asaf replied. “Trying to blend in.”

“It seems you did a good job of blending in,” Brant said. “Perhaps, too good of a job.”

“You suspect me of working for the Normans?” Asaf said with a small laugh.

“You speak their language,” Brant said as they led their horses through the darkening streets of Richmond.

“Christ’s Bones! I speak many languages,” Asaf replied, a frown replacing his smile. “Am I also working for the Italians, and the Swedes, and the Gauls? What are you worried about, Brant? Are you ever at ease with the world?”

“You know so many languages,” Brant said, “and have been so many places. It’s a wonder one such as yourself could hold any allegiances.”

Asaf turned hard on the thane, his face only inches away from the Wessexer’s. Thaddeus was glad the sun was fading. Many would have found it odd, a monk reeling around to face a follower, looking as if they were going to fight.

“Is it so odd I’ve been all around this world and can speak so many languages?” Asaf asked no one in particular.

“Nah,” Gunnar replied nonchalantly.

“Certainly not,” Thaddeus replied.

“Are we all working for the Normans?” Asaf asked.

Brant stepped back.

“Of what are you trying to accuse me?” Asaf asked.

“Just watch yourself,” Brant said.

“I think it is you who should heed his own warnings,” Asaf replied.

“Enough,” Thaddeus said. “We need to get out of the streets, lest we attract unwanted attention.”

“Do you truly mean to go to Easby Abbey?” Asaf asked.

“No,” Thaddeus replied. “Not even the most foolish of abbots would believe you are some Augustinian monk on a pilgrimage.”

“But those soldiers did,” Alden said.

“Exactly,” Thaddeus said. “Common soldiers. They know nothing of the happenings of the cloth. The local abbot would easily spot our ruse and be unhappy about the weapons.”

“Where to, then?” Gunnar asked.

“There is a … a suitable alehouse and inn in Richmond,” Alden said slowly.

“Of course, the Mercian would know where to drink and whore,” Brant said.

“Oh, do shut up for once,” Gunnar said.

“There are no whores in that place,” Alden said. “The name is The Priest’s Inn because it is where religious person lodge as well as other traveler person. It is in the … the southeast part of the city. Many houses there.”

“To The Priest’s Inn then,” Thaddeus said, still impressed by Alden’s not quite perfect Latin. He clearly understood it better than he spoke it.

“Do you smell her?” Asaf whispered in Greek.

“I do,” Thaddeus replied. “She is truly powerful for her scent to be so rank in such a big city. Be prepared.”

Asaf crossed himself again as they made their way towards the inn. This time it was not part of an act.

CHAPTER 11

T  HE WITCH’S POWER and presence had already corrupted this city, and the presence of evil left an acrid taste in Thaddeus’ mouth. For a trained warrior, such as he and his companions, it was a sensation felt after every battle, but there was a time when he could go into the forests or the deserts or the mountains of the world and be free of that most unwelcome sense, but as of late, it seemed he could never get away from it. The sensation he felt there was strong, a scent which almost made him gag, making their mission all the more urgent. He felt gooseflesh rise on his arms, and he shuddered; it took a lot to make Thaddeus do that.

As they led their horses through the dark streets of Richmond, he could sense people whispering and eyeing them suspiciously through cracks in their shuttered windows. Hindrelag—Richmond—was supposed to be a thriving city with a castle made fully of stone, given to Alan the Red—brother of Count Stephen of Tréguier—by William the Conqueror himself. With its rich farmlands and the River Swale flowing through its lands, it was a wealthy place, but as beggars and homeless children crowded the streets, it looked more like a camp of refugees than a thriving Norman settlement. One beggar extended an almost skeletal hand, groaning as Thaddeus passed by.

“By Lord Jesus,” Brant said, putting an arm over his nose, “he stinks.”

“Put your arm down, Brant,” Thaddeus commanded, putting a hand on the beggar’s head and mumbling a prayer. “His stink is more than just filth.”

Thaddeus saw a flash of golden light in the beggar’s eyes. He went rigid, looked as if he might lunge at Thaddeus, and then collapsed in a heap of rags. After just a moment, he pushed himself up, weeping. Thaddeus knelt down and cupped the man’s face in his hands.

“Go home, brother,” Thaddeus said.

The beggar stood, still crying, nodded, and limped hurriedly down the street.

“What was that?” Brant asked.

“Just a man who needed some encouragement,” Thaddeus explained and then admonished himself. Releasing the beggar from the grips of evil could have given away their ruse as Saxon freedom fighters. But it was too late to worry about that now.

“Destitution and not trusting our Lord Jesus Christ can easily drive a man to the streets,” he added.

“What magic was that?” Brant asked as Jarvis, his servant, backed away.

“It’s not magic,” Thaddeus replied. “It’s simply caring about people and knowing how to talk to them.”

“Looked like magic to me,” Brant said.

His eyes were hate-filled, those of a man who loved very little and was suspicious of much. Thaddeus had seen those eyes before, over the years. He had seen them many times. Part of him felt pity for Brant and his bigoted, ignorant ways.

“Well, it’s not,” Thaddeus replied.

“I’ll say it again—” Brant began to say, his hand moving towards his long sword, but Gunnar’s grip cut him off, and he gurgled as the Norseman lifted the thane up on his tiptoes, his huge hand encircling Brant’s throat.

“I’ve had about enough of your mouth for one evening,” Gunnar said.

“Gunnar, let him go,” Thaddeus commanded, and his friend obliged.

Brant, falling to his knees for a moment, rubbed his neck. He looked over his shoulder at Jarvis and stood, glaring at the huscarl as if the man should have done something. His house soldier looked scared.

“You’ll pay for that,” Brant said, pointing an accusatory finger at Gunnar.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Gunnar replied in a tone that suggested Brant’s threat was of no consequence.

“Enough,” Thaddeus said. “We need to get off the street and to the alehouse, lest we raise suspicions.”

As they walked, Thaddeus couldn’t help wanting to pray for the people who filled the streets. He wanted to give every man and woman a loaf of bread, every child a quick blessing but knew it would attract too much unwanted attention and make Brant even more suspicious. As much as he was growing to dislike the man, he needed him, if for no other reason than to appease Prince Harold and Wulfstan.

“Look at them,” Gunnar said, staring at a little, blond-haired boy curled up in his mother’s lap. “We can’t leave them.”

“What would you have us do?” Brant asked. “Waste time and energy on street rats? Our mission is much more pressing.”

Thaddeus could see the rage growing across the Norseman’s face. He had an affinity for children, and, despite his massive size, they seemed to love him back. They flocked to him, and Thaddeus had never seen a man who could calm a crying baby or cheer up a sad child as Gunnar could. But the thane was right.

“Another time, my friend,” Thaddeus said. “Finishing this mission will help these people more than a loaf of bread ever could.”

Brant spat at the feet of an old woman who was clearly blind.

“These people are worthless,” Brant muttered, “but, yes, ridding this land of the Normans will help them off the streets so they can take their stink elsewhere, back to the fields where they belong.”

Gunner nodded at Thaddeus while glaring angrily at Brant as they continued down the street. Thaddeus felt Brant watching him closely, but those weren’t the eyes causing gooseflesh to rise along his arms. They were being followed, and not by simple thieves or street thugs. Such a powerful witch would be able to feel their presence as much as they felt hers, and would have sent her minions to watch them, to spy on them, or even attack.

As they turned a corner, a scream pierced the quiet night. Most of the homes of Richmond were already dark, the three-story buildings looming over the streets like shadowy giants, but light came from the bottom story of the building he judged to be where the scream had come. As if to confirm his suspicions, another scream came from the open window. He ran towards the sound, his companions following.

Staring through the open window, Thaddeus saw a man lying in the corner of the home, unconscious with blood running from a mean wound on his forehead. A chair, one of its legs broken, lay toppled in front of the man, with others scattered about the place. In another corner, three little children—two girls and a little boy—huddled together, crying. Thaddeus saw two Norman soldiers.

A woman—the source of the scream—lay across a table, and one of the soldiers, his trousers around his ankles, thrust violently into her as he stood between her legs. The woman’s dress was torn, and the soldier dug his dirty fingers into her exposed breast as he licked her neck like a thirsty dog. She wept, but he covered her mouth with his other hand. The other soldier stood by them and watched, salivating as he waited his turn. Thaddeus drew his sword.

“I thought you said you didn’t want to draw attention to us,” Brant said, clearly unsympathetic to the family’s situation, but Thaddeus’ glare halted any further protests from the thane.

Thaddeus kicked open the front door, and the children looked up at him, startled, and the standing soldier turned, the lust draining from his expression as he took in the sudden disturbance. Before he could say anything, the Norman’s eyes went wide when Thaddeus slashed his sword across the man’s chest, breaking links in his mail hauberk. He went to his knees, clutching at the wound, and Thaddeus brought his blade down on the man’s neck.

The rapist stood, trying to pull up his trousers and unsheathe his sword at the same time, but Gunnar was too quick. From behind, he pulled up the soldier’s chin with one hand and jammed a dagger into his exposed throat with the other. The Norman gurgled for a moment before going limp, and Gunnar dropped him to the floor.

Thaddeus helped the woman up from the table, and she curled her arms over her body, trying to cover her nakedness, as she wept uncontrollably.

“Modor, Modor,” her children cried as they ran to her, trying to nestle close to her.

Thaddeus removed his thick overcoat and draped it over the woman. She flinched at first but then seeing Thaddeus, and what he had done, she grabbed his hand, kissing it. She spoke quickly, and Thaddeus understood so little of the Anglo-Saxon language, he couldn’t make out what she was saying.

“Husband?” he asked in his limited English.

She nodded, still grasping his hand. Asaf knelt next to the unconscious man, putting several fingers to his neck.

“He’s alive,” Asaf said.

They placed the bodies of the Norman soldiers by the door of the small home as the mother had escorted her children into the other room and told them to stay there, despite their crying protests. As Asaf tended to him, with her modesty restored, she knelt over her husband as he slowly awoke. They held each other as they watched Thaddeus inspect the bodies and then say a silent prayer over them, crossing himself when he was done.

“Thank you,” the husband said, through Alden’s translation. Thaddeus had first asked Brant to translate, but the thane refused. It was beneath him to talk to these people, especially after being defiled.

“Does this sort of thing happen often?” Thaddeus asked, sensitive to the trauma the couple had just experienced, but still shocked by the soldiers invading their home.

Rape often happened in large cities, but the soldiers who protected the city attacking a woman in her home, with her husband and children there, was certainly uncommon.

“Yes,” the husband replied. He explained that a neighbor was raped the night before, her husband being killed in the process. The Anglo-Saxon people living outside the city walls got the worst of it, patrols going through their little villages and boroughs, ransacking and raping and murdering. Most of the children on the streets of the city were those thrown off their lands after their parents were killed.

“We need to do something with these bodies,” Asaf said.

“Ask him if he knows of someplace close by we can hide these men,” Thaddeus said to Alden.

The hearthguard did as he was asked. The man nodded and told them to wait.

“I don’t like this,” Brant said. “What if he is out getting more soldiers, hoping to turn us in for a reward and some favor in the eyes of the Count.”

“He’s not,” Thaddeus replied.

“How do you know?” Brant asked.

“I just do,” Thaddeus said.

The husband, a man named Hugh, returned with four other men. Brant took a step back, and Thaddeus saw his hand go to his sword, but each one of the men grabbed either the arms or ankles of the Norman soldiers before carrying them out of the home.

The wife—Hilda—knelt at Thaddeus’s feet, grabbing his hand once again and kissing it, saying something quickly.

“She doesn’t know how she can ever repay you,” Alden said.

“Be patient. These atrocities will end … and soon,” Thaddeus said. “And serve the Lord Christ, teaching your children to follow his commands,” he added, and after Alden translated, she nodded and lowered her head.

“We must leave now,” said Asaf as he looked out the open window. “It’s getting late, even for an alehouse in a busy city, and we don’t want to raise suspicions. Everyone seems to have gone into their homes, and the only light on this street is coming from the candles in here.”

Brant said something to Hilda, finally resigning himself to speaking to peasants. His voice was hard and cold and, when he took a step towards her, she ducked and sobbed quietly. Thaddeus shot Alden a look.

“He asked why their candles were burning so late,” Alden said, “and what they were up to. He thinks they invited the Normans in. He is accusing Hilda of being a prostitute.”

“He cannot be serious,” Gunnar said.

Hilda cried as Hugh stepped in front of his wife, dried blood caking his bald head, his forehead, and cheek. He exchanged harsh words with the thane, to which Brant seemed angry, suggesting he was shocked a peasant speak to a thane in such a tone.

“They have an older son they were waiting for,” Alden explained. “He left early this morning and hasn’t been back.”

“Tell them we must leave,” Thaddeus said. “Brant, calm yourself. Asaf, give them several loaves of bread and some coin. Would you say a blessing over this home?”

“Of course,” Asaf said, speaking softly with his eyes closed.

After Alden spoke to the husband and wife, Hugh grabbed Thaddeus’ hand, speaking hurriedly.

“He says we must stay here the night,” Alden said. And when Thaddeus shook his head, Alden added, “He insists.”

Thaddeus looked outside and then back at the couple and nodded his thanks. Brant, of course, protested staying in the meager home of these poor Saxon people.

“It’ll be too crowded,” Brant said.

“Sleep outside then,” Gunnar said.

“If anything, he should sleep outside,” Brant said, nodding to Alden.

“You can have our bed,” Hugh said through Alden.

Brant was happy to take the family’s only bed, and Thaddeus believed the thane would have taken it all for himself if he could have. But Thaddeus put a stop to that and said the warriors would sleep on the floor in the home’s main living space.

As the others settled down and were soon snoring, Thaddeus couldn’t sleep. He sat by the window, watching the dark street outside. It was cold and, with the constant drizzle, a slight fog rose up from the ground. As the beggars and homeless meandered about, they looked like ghosts, and among them, Thaddeus could see the possessed. Their eyes glowed and shimmered when the moon caught them, and their smell was unmistakable. When they saw Thaddeus staring at them, they hissed and scampered away. Then he saw two large eyes staring at him from the dark alley between two buildings across the street. They didn’t shimmer or glow but watched him intently.

She knows we are here.

CHAPTER 12

T  HADDEUS HADN’T REALIZED he had fallen asleep, his head resting on the sill of the window. His nose was cold, and it was still raining, but that wasn’t what woke him. The commotion of marching Norman troops, their boots slapping against puddles, forced his eyes open. His heart skipped a beat as their commander shouted at people in the street, commanding them to move. Had they found the dead bodies?

He looked to the center of the room and saw Alden, Gunnar, and Asaf gone. Only Jarvis and Brant lay there, the thane bundled in an extra layer of blankets and the huscarl had none. Thaddeus jumped up, sword in hand when the front door opened. It was Gunnar and Asaf, and he sighed with relief when he saw his friends.

“What’s going on?” Thaddeus asked in Greek as the thane and his house soldier stirred.

“Some of Richmond’s garrison is marching north,” Gunnar explained.

“North?” Thaddeus asked.

“Yes,” Gunnar replied. “Apparently, the friction between the Normans and the Scots has worsened. A force of Scots led by King Malcolm attacked Cumberland, pushing back the Norman forces. Count Stephen is sending men north to help William Rufus reclaim those lands.”

“What’s going on?” Brant asked, finally sitting up. He moved and stretched. Then he grumbled. “Damned hard floor.”

“Norman forces going north,” Gunnar replied.

“Why?” Brant asked.

Gunnar explained the conflict to Brant. The thane laughed.

“Northumbrian dogs, Scots and devil worshipping Normans,” he said with a chuckle, “all killing each other. God is truly good.”

“I would be wary of invoking God’s goodness in this,” Thaddeus said, standing and straightening his back a little. “I doubt our Lord is ever joyful when men kill one another.”

“These are heathens and sodomites. Pagans who hide their cultish ways behind a cross,” Brant said. “Bah! They are all bastards and whores, just like this one.”

The thane pointed a finger at Alden. The Mercian stepped forward, white-knuckled fists balled up, but Gunnar stopped him.

“Surely, the Lord I serve delights in heathens and pagans dying,” Brant said.

“Then we serve a different Lord,” Thaddeus said.

“Blasphemy!” Brant hissed and, for the first time in many days, he looked sincere about his accusation.

“As tragic as this may be,” Thaddeus said, staring at the thane as he spoke and ignoring the accusation, “it may actually provide an opportunity to get close to Count Stephen.”

“What are you doing?” Thaddeus asked through Alden as Hugh appeared from the other room and headed for the door.

“I need to work,” Hugh replied nonchalantly.

“You must rest,” Thaddeus said.

“That’s quite impossible, my lord,” Hugh said. “I am the only wax chandler in Richmond.”

“I see no candles or candle making instruments in here,” Thaddeus said.

“My shop is next door,” Hugh said. “Two families live above it, and I am blessed they work for me. That is probably why the Normans came last night and …”

Hugh stopped for a moment as his words caught in his throat, and Thaddeus could tell he choked back tears.

“We are not wealthy by any means, my lord,” Hugh continued, “but the Lord has blessed us with plenty. Most of the aristocrats buy their candles from me, as does the abbey. My children never go hungry. The chandler guild has been good to me, and the people living here, on Chandler Street, respect my family and me. But if I don’t work, the guild will give my business to someone else, and believe me there are plenty of tallow chandlers who would rather be working with beeswax.”

“Where does your wax come from?” Thaddeus asked.

“A beekeeper, just outside the city walls,” Hugh explained, “although his yield has been light this season. The Normans must’ve come looking for money, among other things. What they don’t know is, not only has business been slow, we feed all of these poor paupers outside our home. Any extra coin we have, especially recently, goes to those poor widows and children.”

They stayed in the home until dinner, their noontime meal, and Gunnar, ever fond of children, kept the three little ones occupied. Asaf spent most of the day praying with Hugh’s wife, Hilda. Brant couldn’t stand being around a chandler’s home, even after learning he was a successful businessman and, by no means, a poor Saxon, so he left, ignoring Thaddeus’ request for him not to. In fact, Brant was quite insistent on leaving and only with Jarvis; Thaddeus prayed they wouldn’t do anything stupid.

Thaddeus and Alden helped Hugh in his shop. Thaddeus had met many chandlers in his travels, but none took quite the care in their craft as Hugh. He had different molds he used, as well as dipping stations for different types of candles. Monks from the abbey came to his shop, as did several aristocratic women. Whenever they asked him what had happened to his forehead, the mean cut bandaged with a bit of cloth, he simply told them he was a clumsy fool and fell.

The two families living above his shop seemed happy, and Thaddeus could tell Hugh treated them well, and they were appreciative of the chandler’s employment.

“You’re a good man, Hugh Chandler,” Thaddeus said through Alden after he saw the man take a silver penny from one woman in exchange for a pair of candles, and then immediately give it to a widow and her little boy as they passed in front of his shop.

“I do what I can,” Hugh replied, “to help the people of Richmond and do the Lord’s work. There are men better than me out there.”

“I don’t know if there are,” Thaddeus suggested, and the candle maker nodded his appreciation.

Before dinner, Thaddeus excused himself from Hugh’s shop and visited Butcher Street, where he bought a portion of roasted beef, and then Brewer’s Lane, where he bought a cask of the best beer he could find. When he returned to Hugh’s home, he found the man had invited the other two families over for dinner as well, and their meals were a large ordeal.

“My lord,” Hilda said when she saw Thaddeus walking in with beef and beer, “you must tell me how much this cost you.”

“Not on my life,” Thaddeus said with a smile.

As they sat down, Anson, the couple’s oldest boy returned. Hilda was furious, interrogating her son of fourteen or fifteen and even slapping him across the face, although the stout boy looked like he could take more than a simple mother’s slap. He said little in regard to where he had been, but when he learned of what happened to his family the night before, he raged and vowed revenge on the Normans, exclaiming as they passed him in the street, he would knife them in the balls before cutting their throats.

“A man with a vengeful heart dies young,” Thaddeus said.

“It is because of them,” said Anson, a splitting image of his mother with broad shoulders and a cleft chin. When his parents weren’t listening, he told Thaddeus, “I go out at night and beg.”

“Why?” Thaddeus asked. “Your father seems successful enough.”

“The Normans take everything, and my father gives more and more,” Anson explained with tears in his eyes. “He can’t stand seeing a poor widow or a pauper boy walk by his shop and not help. And the Normans make it worse.”

“Rather than beg,” Thaddeus said, and as he stared at the boy, who looked like a good lad but had troubled eyes, added, “and steal, why not work with your father?”

“Steal?” Anson said, pretending to be offended.

“No one would fault you for such a thing,” Thaddeus said, “but stealing is a sin.”

“Is rape and murder a sin?” Anson asked.

“Truly,” Thaddeus replied, “but should we trade one sin for another. Be with your family, Anson, and don’t worry about revenge. Evil will get what it deserves eventually.”

Anson seemed to listen, but when Brant returned after dinner, wanting to take no part in feasting with a chandler and the families working with him, he heard of the boy’s anger.

“These Normans are dogs,” the thane said. “They are demons. The Devil’s minions. When we kill them, even if it means giving our own lives, we are doing the Lord’s work. To die while cutting off a Norman’s balls would mean immediate acceptance into heaven, my son.”

Thaddeus pulled the thane aside, Brant looking down with disgust when the Greek man grabbed his arm.

“You don’t truly believe what you told that boy, do you?” Thaddeus asked.

“Of course, I do,” the thane replied with a haughty smile of condescension.

“You would send a boy into the streets to die,” Thaddeus said, “just so he might kill—nay, murder—one Norman soldier? And you know that is all he would do. They would cut him down before he could blink.”

“A boy?” the thane laughed. “I killed my first man by his age. And it is probably the best he can do, being not more than a Northumbrian whelp who has little hope of ever being more than a chandler like his father.”

“A successful, well-respected chandler,” Thaddeus said.

Brant waved Thaddeus off, and he didn’t say anything more.

Dusk settled on Richmond, and Thaddeus stepped into a street much less crowded with beggars than the day before. He put his nose to the air and sniffed. He could still sense the presence of evil in this place, but it seemed dulled. Even so, he wore his girdle and sheathed sword, comforted in the knowledge his steel was close at hand and not so worried a Norman soldier might see him. After all, the streets would be vacant save for the begging paupers.

“Does the air feel lighter to you?” Thaddeus asked, Asaf standing next to him.

“Yes, it does,” the priest replied.

“She is gone,” Thaddeus said.

“North, you think?” Asaf asked.

“I don’t know,” Thaddeus replied with a shrug. “Maybe I can find something out … ask around. You and Gunnar stay here, watch that fool of a thane and comfort this family.”

“As you wish,” Asaf replied.

It was seldom Asaf was so compliant and without any protest. He must have felt the weirdness in the air. That was the only word Thaddeus had for it. They had felt evil before—pure evil—especially in the Holy Land and the wild forests of Germania. But this felt different, even in the evident absence of the witch. Where could she have gone? And why?

Thaddeus walked through the streets of Richmond, making his way towards the castle when he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Looking over his shoulder, he saw nothing but a few beggars walking about in the shadows. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw two big eyes staring at him from the darkness of a building corner. He stopped.

“Why don’t you come out?” Thaddeus said in Latin. “I see you. Your sneakiness has done nothing for you.”

He was met with a deep, reverberating laugh as a man who rivaled Gunnar’s size stepped from the shadow. His skin was dark, a stark contrast to the whiteness of his eyes and teeth as he laughed. He was a Moor. Thaddeus could tell right away, from the man’s feathered turban, tight-fitting shaya, and his plumed trousers. A scimitar, one with an ornately decorated silver handle, hung from his hip.

Thaddeus smelled the witch’s stink on this man. Moors were followers of Islam and the teachings of Muhammad. As such, they were not Christian men, but that did not make them inherently evil. Despite the friction between the western church and the Moslem empires of the Holy Land, and despite the encroachment of Seljuk Turks on Byzantium, Thaddeus had met plenty of Muslims in his many travels who welcomed him and Asaf and Gunnar into their homes with open arms, traded with them, even educated them in their ways of doing arithmetic and writing. One such Muslim family even gave Thaddeus a highly treasured copy of their holy book, the Quran. What he did know was the Muslim people viewed witchcraft much the same way Christian people did—with abhorrence.

“Are you so eager to die?” the moor said in heavily accented Latin.

“Are you so eager to do the work of Al’Shaitan?” Thaddeus replied, using the Muslim word for the Devil. “I smell the witch’s stink on you.”

The moor laughed.

“You Christians think everything is so simple,” he said with a false smile, “and yet, you complicate everything. How foolish you are, as you kill one another simply because you disagree about which side of your bread you should add butter.”

“Are you Muslims so different,” Thaddeus replied. “I know of the civil wars within your supposed unified Caliphate.”

The smile on the moor’s face disappeared.

“You have two choices, infidel,” the moor said. “You can leave and live out your curse in service to your god somewhere else, or you can die.”

How did this man know of Thaddeus’s curse … or blessing?

“To die in service to Christ is the greatest blessing I could ever receive,” Thaddeus said, drawing his sword.

The moor laughed, drawing his scimitar and saying something in a language Thaddeus didn’t know. Five forms rose from the shadows of the street. They looked a far cry from men, although Thaddeus was certain that’s what they were. They looked broken, had missing teeth, and were emaciated with sunken eyes.

The first broken man approached Thaddeus, producing a knife from the rags that hung loosely off his shoulders. Thaddeus made short work of the man, cutting him down. As he did, he heard a hiss and a green mist escaped the gaping wound in the man’s chest. The other four broken ones moved with a speed their bodies should not have been able to support. One came at him with a quarterstaff. Thaddeus dodged his attack and lopped the man’s head off. Again, a ghostly vapor escaped the wound as the body crumpled to the ground.

The broken souls might have overcome a normal man or even a well-trained soldier, but Thaddeus was neither of those. He was something more. He made short work of the other men, each time releasing greenish, ghostly ether from their wounds. Then, the moor attacked. He was strong and fast, and Thaddeus knew his muscles, albeit well trained and naturally strong, had been supernaturally enhanced. He grunted as he blocked the moor’s attacks, and when he sliced his blade across the man’s leg, it produced a black ichor and seemed to do little to slow the man.

“You will die,” the moor said, “and you will find out your god has nothing for you. Al’Shaitan will dine on your bones for all eternity.”

He was face to face with Thaddeus who could smell the stink of evil on the moor’s breath. Thaddeus kicked out, pushing the moor away.

“You will die and immediately regret your decision as you find eternal fire waiting for you on the other side,” Thaddeus said through labored breaths. It had been many years since a man had tested him so in battle.

Eventually, Thaddeus managed to sweep the moor’s foot out from underneath him. The man fell back, hard, and the point of Thaddeus’ sword met the moor’s chest as he sat up. Thaddeus stabbed him twice more before slicing his blade along the inside of the moor’s thigh, his black blood seeping out quickly as Thaddeus had cut one of the man’s main arteries.

The moor grunted, trying to squeeze his leg and blood seeping through his fingers.

“Curse you,” the moor seethed.

“I feel cursed most days already,” Thaddeus said, putting a foot on the man’s chest and pushing him back down against the ground.

“You will burn in Jaheem,” the moor seethed.

“Maybe,” Thaddeus replied, understanding the Arabic word for hell. “But I know you will, for sure.”

“I will be met with riches and women,” the moor replied with a smile.

“You truly believe that?” Thaddeus asked. “You were supposed to kill me, and you failed. You think Al’Shaitan will meet failure with open arms?”

The moor seemed to think for a moment, and then his smile faded.

“No. You know he will not,” Thaddeus added. “You will be burned alive for all eternity; your flesh rejuvenated every day so you can once again experience the pain. Boiling water will never quench your thirst, and giant scorpions will sting you while the Zabaniyya torment you daily. Or maybe, as a hypocrite, you will find yourself in the lowest well of Jaheem where you will find Al’Shaitan and his demons gnawing on your bones forever.”

A look of fear crossed the moor’s face. He squeezed his leg hard and fought against Thaddeus’s foot.

“You are dead,” Thaddeus said. “You died the moment you sold your soul to the Devil and his witch. Where is she?”

The moor spat at him. Thaddeus drew a dagger from his belt and plunged it halfway into the moor’s shoulder as his knee replaced his foot on the man’s chest. The moor grunted and then let out a deep, groaning cry when Thaddeus twisted the blade.

“Where is the witch? I know she’s not here anymore,” Thaddeus said, pushing his face close to the moor’s despite the foul breath.

“I will never tell you,” the moor replied.

“Ah, yes, the charms of a witch,” Thaddeus said with an insincere smile. He drove the dagger deep as he twisted more. “Did she open her legs to you? Is she the one who promised you all the riches hell has to offer? Did she say you were hers? How many men serve her? Do you think you are the first, the only man she has seduced?”

The moor grimaced and cried out as Thaddeus rotated the dagger. The moor let his head fall back, and he stopped fighting against Thaddeus.

“What hope is there then?” the moor asked.

“Do something good with your last moments,” Thaddeus said. “Exact revenge on that bitch and ask for forgiveness in your last moments. God is merciful.”

“Allah, I am sorry,” the moor muttered as he lost more blood and his consciousness clearly began to wane.

“Tell me,” Thaddeus said softly.

“She is in Winchester,” the moor replied, eyes closed and tears streaming down his cheeks. “She poses as a Flemish noblewoman. She plans to meet with William Rufus. She is not…”

Just as the moor opened to speak again, Thaddeus moved away. Blood poured from his mouth and, following the blood, black, hairy spiders crawled from his mouth and nose. Spiders crawled from his pant legs and sleeves as well, and Thaddeus could only imagine from where they came. Blood, firstly the black ichor and then thick, red blood, poured from his eyes and ears. The moor convulsed violently, and Thaddeus heard the sound of breaking bone. Within moments, black, hairy spiders covered his whole body.

Thaddeus stepped away and crossed himself.

“Christ Almighty,” Thaddeus whispered.

Thaddeus ran back to the chandler’s house, his heart beating faster than it had in a long while, and as he stood at the door, his hands shook. He willed them to be still and turned the handle.

“She’s in Winchester, meeting with William Rufus,” Thaddeus said before anyone could ask where he’d been. “We must leave now.”

CHAPTER 13

T  HADDEUS HAD TASKED Anson with going to Chesterfield, delivering a cryptic message about the witch’s transition to Bishop Wulfstan. He knew that the bishop, in all his wisdom about the world, knew about the movements of the witch, but Thaddeus just wanted to be sure.

“Why are we sending the boy?” Asaf asked Thaddeus when the two stood alone by the door. “Chesterfield is between Richmond and Winchester as the crow flies. There’s no need.”

“We need to stay away from Prince Harold,” Thaddeus replied. “I told Brant that Count Stephen has gone to Winchester with a retinue of soldiers. When he asked why we would follow, I told him that our mission is one of espionage and that we must watch him and study his interactions with King William if we are to release the people of Richmond from his tyrannical grip.”

“Did he accept your explanation?” Asaf asked with one cocked eyebrow and an almost mocking smile.

“It sounds foolish, I know,” Thaddeus replied, “and he is already suspicious of us. But, yes, I think he accepted my story. I told him we must travel around Chesterfield, away from the usual road south, lest we run into the Count’s entourage, when he said we could alert the Prince of the Count’s absence. Of course, I do not know Prince Harold well, but I can tell he is the type of man that would seize the opportunity, believing Count Stephen is away, to lay siege to Richmond. It would be to the death of his men and many of the good, Saxon people living here.”

“I hate this slinking around like some frumentarii,” Asaf said.

“You make a very unlikely Roman spy, my friend but, for the moment, it is what we must do,” Thaddeus replied. “We must do the Lord’s work.”

Thaddeus caught Alden’s attention and went to speak to Hilda and Hugh, taking one of their hands each into his.

“Thank you for letting us send young Anson to Chesterfield,” Thaddeus said.

“Good sir,” Hilda said, “it is the least we can do. Sincerely, you do not have to pay us. You have already done so much.”

“Nonsense,” Thaddeus replied. “This must remain quiet, though. Many lives are at stake.”

“Of course,” Hugh replied.

“Do you remember the words?” Thaddeus asked Anson, Hugh and Hilda’s eldest son.

“Yes sir,” Anson replied.

“Repeat them,” Thaddeus said.

“Pax vobiscum,” Anson said, and then added, “Pax in Cristo.”

“Good,” Thaddeus said, then, he kissed both Hugh and his wife on their foreheads and crossed himself. “God be with you.”

†

THE JOURNEY SOUTH, towards Winchester, took much longer than Thaddeus had hoped, and it bothered him more when he thought about the fact it would have taken the witch a fraction of the time it took them. She would have used supernatural means and dark magic to get to her destination. He found himself frustrated, and his resentment grew day by day as Brant’s griping and complaining increased, as did his abuse of his huscarl, Jarvis, and the hearthguard, Alden.

“Damn it!” Brant screamed, kicking at Jarvis. “There’s mold on this bread.”

“What do you expect in these conditions?” Gunnar asked.

“Bread without mold,” Brant replied flatly.

“Just break the moldy piece off,” Gunnar said, to which Brant growled and cursed under his breath.

“You over there,” Brant said to Thaddeus as he trained with Alden, showing him some of the different fighting styles he had learned as a soldier traveling throughout the world. “I don’t know why you waste your time on that dog. A dog bites, and that is it. That’s why they hunt in packs. Alone, they are nothing.”

“I am no dog you intolerant bigot,” Alden replied in Latin, stopping and glaring at the thane. He was an excellent student and, in their short time together, was able to hold conversations and understand the language of the Roman church.

Brant leaned back, eyes wide for a moment and mouth open. He snapped his mouth shut and threw a twig into a fire that struggled to stay lit.

“Teaching him Latin does nothing,” Brant mumbled, even though everyone could still hear him. “Wrap a dog in fine clothing and put a crown on his head and he is still a dog.”

“Pay him no mind,” Thaddeus said quietly.

“I don’t,” Alden replied.

“Truly?” Thaddeus asked. “Just a few days ago you would have tried fighting him for saying such a thing.”

“What does Jesus say?” Alden asked. “Turn the other cheek.”

Thaddeus smiled.

“Truly.”

“Besides,” Alden added, “if what Gunnar says is true, then my ancestors fought the north men valiantly. They were the only Englishmen willing to stand against their raids while Brant’s ancestors bowed and groveled at their feet. If anyone is the dog, it is he. Look at the way he treats his huscarl.”

“I don’t know if I would call any man a dog,” Thaddeus said. “I have seen many people refer to other people as lesser than them, and it always leads to tragedy and strife.”

“I suppose that is one good thing about the Normans,” Alden said.

“What is that?” Thaddeus asked.

“History tells us slavery has been a way of life for my people, for generations,” Alden said. “Since the beginning of their existence.”

“As it has been for many peoples,” Thaddeus said. “You are not alone. Gunnar’s people had slaves. My people had slaves. Even the Jews had slaves, even though it was, perhaps, a little different than a Saxon slave.”

“Well, according to many of the elders that remember the conquest of Duke William,” Alden said, “the Normans freed many of the Saxon slaves. I have read the Bible, Thaddeus, and being a hearthguard, I had access to education. Saxon slaves were no better than animals. Some lords even castrated and branded their slaves.”

“Sounds like the Romans,” Thaddeus muttered.

“Most battles were fought over slaves,” Alden said, not hearing Thaddeus’ mumblings. He pointed to Brant. “Those like that one there would need a new concubine or three, and so they would attack a village and take all their young, pretty women, violating them and then selling them, sometimes as far afield as Denmark.”

“So, life under the Normans is actually better?” Thaddeus asked.

Alden shrugged.

“Not necessarily,” Alden replied, “at least for some. Being a serf is a little better than being a slave. And the Normans are ruthless, with or without a witch influencing them. The elders say that when William the Conqueror traveled north to quell revolts, he killed so many people that he eradicated whole families, cutting off bloodlines forever.”

“This land has always been wrought with chaos,” Thaddeus said.

“How do you mean?” Alden asked.

“Even when I first came to Britannia, it was violent and wild,” Thaddeus said, and, remembering, muttered, “and beautiful at the same time.”

“You’ve been here before?” Alden asked. “It couldn’t have been that long ago. When?”

Thaddeus knew that some gray touched the edges of his hair and peppered his beard, but it still lied about his age. He simply smiled.

“Perhaps a story for another time,” he said.

They traveled along the path of an old Roman road. Thaddeus couldn’t remember its name but knew it extended beyond a wall the Emperor Hadrian had built to the south of England. They kept their distance. Many travelers in England recognized the road as a major thoroughfare and traffic was, at times, unexpectedly heavy, and Thaddeus felt like avoiding traffic was good for the time being.

“This is idiotic,” Brant had said.

“The Devil … King William has spies everywhere,” Thaddeus had replied, to which Brant gave him an ever-growing look of suspicion.

With the exception of Brant, they hunted and foraged each night, mostly ending up with only skinny rabbits and berries. One night, Gunnar brought a scrawny female roe deer back from a hunt, to which Brant scoffed, chiding the man for his hunting skills. When Gunnar challenged him, the thane went out the next day and killed a red stag, forcing Jarvis to drag it into their camp.

“Why?” Thaddeus asked.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Brant replied.

“Why kill the stag?” Thaddeus asked.

“Why not?” Brant replied.

“The roe deer was still enough to last us the rest of the week,” Thaddeus said. “This stag would have sired dozens of fawns, and now most of its meat will go to waste.”

“If we eat none of its meat,” Brant said, puffing out his chest with a look of confusion scrawling across his face, “what does it matter? I am a man. I killed the deer. It is my right.”

Thaddeus only looked at Brant and shook his head. The thane would never understand.

CHAPTER 14

I T TOOK A FULL two weeks to reach the outskirts of Winchester, and the whole time was filled with arguing between Gunnar and Brant, or Alden and Brant, or Asaf and Brant. And as Thaddeus’ priestly friend grew grumpy and irritated, his Norseman friend increased his chiding of the man, which, only, in turn caused the thane to complain more. And poor Jarvis was always caught in the middle, receiving a boot or a backhand from his master for some slight over which he had no fault or control.

Well into the county of Hampshire, they were less than a day away from the city, which they could see from the top of a chalk hill, when they decided to make camp early and rest up so they might enter Winchester before noon.

“Is Asaf going to pretend to be some traveling monk again?” Gunnar, speaking Greek, asked with a smile as they made their way down the other side of the hill to reach a river.

Thaddeus shook his head, although he had considered it.

“No,” he replied. “I think it might be better if I pretended to be some minor noble, an insignificant manor lord from some small borough.”

“Why?” Asaf asked, who trailed behind them.

“I don’t know,” Thaddeus said with a slight chuckle. “Do you still want to be the center of attention?”

“Hog’s piss,” Asaf cursed, and both Gunnar and Thaddeus laughed.

“The moor in Richmond said the witch was posing as a Flemish noblewoman,” Thaddeus explained. “If I pose as a noble as well, perhaps we can get close. Nobles are always throwing parties for something. If we get invited, and the witch is there …”

Thaddeus shrugged.

“I guess it is as good a plan as any,” Asaf said.

“And what of us?” Gunnar asked. “Will I be your personal bodyguard and Asaf will be your cook?”

“You’re a turd,” Asaf growled as Thaddeus and Gunnar laughed again.

“I do think, Gunnar, you should pose as my personal guard,” Thaddeus replied, “and Asaf can pose as a monk simply accompanying us to Winchester … maybe to see the new castle.”

“And what about them?” Gunnar asked, jabbing a thumb towards Brant, Jarvis, and Alden.

“Brant will certainly be the cook,” Thaddeus said with a smile.

“He won’t like that,” Gunnar said.

“Who cares?” Asaf interjected as he moved his horse alongside Gunnar’s and the Norseman threw his hands up defensively.

“I think Alden could pose as another guard,” Thaddeus said, “and Jarvis could be my groomsman.”

“And are we to ask to go straight to the castle?” Gunnar asked.

“No, of course not,” Thaddeus said, placing a sarcastic hand to his chest and giving his friends a mocking half-bow. “I am but a lowly manor lord from … Malmesbury.”

“Malmesbury?” Asaf asked.

“Yes,” Thaddeus replied, giving him another pseudo-bow with his eyes haughtily half-closed. “You may call me Gregory, Lord of Malmesbury.”

Thaddeus and Gunnar laughed and, after a moment of shaking his head and cursing under his breath, Asaf couldn’t help joining them.

“So, what, then?” Asaf asked as they dismounted and let the horses drift over the river to drink.

“What abbey is in Winchester, Alden?” Thaddeus asked, turning his attention to their Saxon friend and speaking in Latin.

“Hyde Abbey,” Alden replied.

“It is a good-sized abbey,” Brant added. “It is the resting place of Alfred the Great.”

“Then we will ask for room and board at Hyde Abbey; they should be able to put us up,” Thaddeus said, speaking in Greek again. “Perhaps our grumpy Saxon pain in the backside over there will be in better spirits staying in the same place as the man who placed England’s seat of power with Wessex.”

The three warriors laughed, and Brant eyed them with his usual, cold stare.

Alden caught some fish and after eating they settled down to sleep, and as soon as the cock crowed, they were off again. By noon, they were close to Winchester.

“Do you feel at home, Brant?” Thaddeus asked as they saw the first semblance of life settled around the capital of England.

“I suppose so,” Brant replied, his voice flat.

“This was your capital, was it not?” Thaddeus asked, referring to Brant’s beloved Wessex, a kingdom in its own right from the 6th century until the emergence of a united English state under the Wessex dynasty in the 10th century.

“The Normans have corrupted it,” Brant said. “It is nothing like it once was. The Normans even demolished the old cathedral, opting to build a new one.”

Thaddeus remembered the old Winchester Cathedral. It was a thing of beauty, a testament to the Old Saxon rulers who finally relented to the Roman church and accepted Christ. When he saw the old cathedral was no longer there, previously visible from far away, his stomach twisted, but probably less than Brant’s … if the man was capable of any emotional response apart from anger or jealousy.

The Normans had constructed a new cathedral; one emulating the architectural genius of the ancient Romans. The building looked to be practically finished, some wooden scaffolding still around the building. Once finished, it would be a spectacular sight, a true homage to God. Even though the Lord didn’t need such grandeur, He certainly deserved it. One thing Thaddeus had noticed about the Normans, even though they were, at times, as ruthless and violent as their ancestor Norsemen, was their reverence to the Lord and the Roman Church. Everywhere they went, they left their mark with beautiful cathedrals such as this one.

“You know, you can firstly thank the Romans for Winchester,” Gunnar said, a hint of humor in his voice as he spoke to Brant.

“Piss on the Romans,” Brant said.

“Let me guess,” Gunnar said, “they’re dogs.”

“They support the Normans,” Brant replied.

“Does it surprise you that Rome would support the Normans over a people barely past their pagan roots?” Asaf said, and Thaddeus knew that his priestly friend had had enough of the thane.

“Peace, Asaf,” Thaddeus said.

“And then,” Gunnar continued, “you can thank the Danes for Winchester.”

The Norseman smiled as Brant’s his eyes went wide, and his cheeks blushed red above his beard.

“How dare you?” the thane began, but Gunnar cut him off.

“If it weren’t for the Danish invasions of England,” Gunnar continued, “your beloved Alfred the Great never would have fortified Winchester. So, even though I am not a Dane, as a representative of the Norsemen, you can thank me when you’re ready.”

Brant looked as if he was about to explode, his cheeks all puffed out along with his chest. His face reminded Thaddeus of one after several days in the sun of the Holy Land, and he couldn’t help laughing a little. Brant just kicked his horse on and moved ahead.

A combination of wooden and stone walls surrounded the city. The stone parts looked old and worn, and Thaddeus felt a small knot in his stomach as a memory tickled the back of his mind. The castle of Winchester was a motte and bailey castle with a large stone great keep at the center of the walled and raised motte. Thaddeus could see elements of construction and scaffolding, even from outside the city walls, surrounding the wooden fortifications of Winchester Castle and knew that William Rufus was in the early stages of constructing yet another stone castle.

“He must believe he has an inexhaustible supply of money and labor,” Thaddeus said, shaking his head as rode back alongside Brant.

Even the most devout rulers in Europe believed they were closer to God than everyone else. If they truly were Christian men, shouldn’t they be inclined to protect the people they ruled? And yet, most of these men viewed their subjects as little more than animals.

“His treatment of the West Saxon people is abhorrent,” Brant said, his face still red but for a different reason this time.

“Is he so different from the rulers of Wessex?” Thaddeus asked, remembering what Alden had said about the Saxons and slavery.

“How dare you compare the kings of Wessex to this sodomite,” Brant cursed.

“Didn’t they put men and women under the bondage of chains?” Thaddeus asked.

“This is different,” Brant said and looked away.

Of course, it was. Anything his people did was justified. He believed they were superior, as did most rulers and ruling people. Thaddeus, once again, entertained a thought that might have been unpopular among some of his present company. Was England better off with the Normans as its rulers?

They led their horses to Hyde Abbey, a large monastery with several stories in some of the buildings and a tall enough bell tower to be seen from quite some distance. As they approached the front gate of the abbey, a young monk with billowing, black robes—the sign of the Benedictine monks—stood there watching them approach. Before they could say anything, however, a man ran past them, pushing Brant aside and bumping into Thaddeus. He was breathing hard and sweating as if he had been running.

“Peace, peace now,” the monk said as the man reached him and grabbed an arm with two hands. “Whatever is your problem?”

“My name is Rowan, and I just killed a Norman in an alehouse after he attacked me,” the man named Rowan huffed, now resting his hands on his knees as he bent over and tried to catch his breath. His lank brown hair clung to the side of his face, wet with sweat, his hands trembled and were stained red. “I seek asylum.”

The young monk bowed.

“Come inside,” the monk said. “We will wait for the coroner.”

“Thank you,” Rowan said, walking past the monk.

“One of my brothers will bring you bread and water,” the monk said. Then he turned to face Thaddeus. “And you, Sir? Would you be seeking asylum as well?”

“Surely, you jest,” Thaddeus said, replying in Latin rather than Frankish.

The sarcastic look on the monk’s face disappeared, and he bowed.

“My apologies,” the monk said.

“We are seeking room and board for a few nights,” Thaddeus said evenly.

“Of course,” the monk replied. He bowed again, his shaggy blond hair falling into his face.

Thaddeus guessed the man was a novitiate, not quite a full-fledged monk.

“Will you tell the Abbot that Lord Gregory of Malmesbury would like to meet with him?” Thaddeus asked. He felt an immediate twinge in his stomach as he lied to this holy man in this holy place.

“Of course,” the monk replied. “Are you here for the banquet?”

“The banquet?” Thaddeus asked, lifting his chin and looking over his nose at the novitiate, a sign of haughtiness but more so the young monk couldn’t see the confusion on his face.

“Yes, my lord,” the novitiate said. “King William is here and is entertaining a Flemish noblewoman who is apparently accompanied by a relative of the late Queen Mother, Matilda.”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course,” Thaddeus replied with a smile. “I apologize. It has been a long day. Yes, we are here for the banquet and to honor King William and his relative.”

“Very well, my lord,” the novitiate said with a bow. “Let me take you to the Abbot, Robert Losinga. I am most certain he would want to know that Sir Gregory is in our presence and procure you a cell worthy of your title.”

“Thank you,” Thaddeus said, that twinge of guilt growing with every passing second.

“Are these your servants, sir?” the monk asked.

“Yes,” Thaddeus replied.

“They may wait here if it pleases you,” the monk said, offering a hand to the cloister—a quadrangular colonnade centered by a beautiful garden.

“I will take Callixtus with me,” Thaddeus said, placing a hand on Asaf’s shoulder, and he couldn’t help seeing, through a sidelong glance, the sour look his friend gave him.

“I am sure he would be comfortable—” the monk began to say, but Thaddeus put up a hand.

“He is a monk from Malmesbury, traveling with us for safety,” he said. The young novitiate’s eyes went wide as he bowed quickly and bid Thaddeus and Asaf follow him.

Thaddeus motioned to the others to stay where they were, and they did as they were told. Even Brant.

The monk in training led Thaddeus and Asaf through the colonnade of the abbey, passing ornately carved, Romanesque columns creating rounded arches and a myriad of different doors and buildings. While everything around Winchester seemed gray and lifeless, much like the lands of Richmond, the gardens of Hyde Abbey bloomed with color, flowers of pink and purple and yellow. Bees floated freely from one flower to the next, and a great magnolia tree, its vibrant reddish-white flowers in full bloom, centered the open space of the cloister.

“This is far too extravagant for a house of God,” Asaf whispered in Greek.

“Perhaps,” Thaddeus replied, “but do you see how everything here is in bloom and vibrant while everything outside these walls looks dead? This is still a house of God.”

“What was that?” the novitiate asked.

“Nothing,” Thaddeus replied.

“What language was that you were speaking in?” the novitiate asked.

“Latin, of course,” Thaddeus replied, looking over his shoulder and glaring at Asaf with worried eyes.

“These are the chambers of Abbot Robert,” the young man said with a bow, stopping at a thick wooden door on the other side of the cloister.

“An abbot is not supposed to have a private chamber,” Asaf said to Thaddeus in Greek. “Is he greater than the others who give their lives to the Lord?”

“Calm yourself,” Thaddeus replied in the same language.

“Is there a problem?” the young monk asked with a genuine look of concern on his face.

“No,” Thaddeus replied with a smile.

The young monk knocked on the door, and a voice from inside the room bid him to enter.

When they entered the room, Thaddeus knew Asaf’s blood would be boiling. Even as a defrocked cleric, the excess that many of the hierarchy in the church experienced irritated Asaf. Hand stitched tapestries of the Virgin Mary and Christ and the travels of the Apostle Paul hung from one wall while a shelf with several books stood against another. A table stood next to the bookshelf, a chalice, plate, and pitcher of gold sitting atop it. The window behind the abbot’s desk was made of stained glass, and the desk itself was dark, made from ebony, and sturdy with piles of parchment and scrolls strewn across its surface.

The Abbot was an elderly man, very frail looking even though Thaddeus could tell that he carried extra weight around his belly. He knew that would frustrate Asaf as well. His white hair, growing around a liver-spotted tonsure, seemed a little messy for an abbot and the man stared at the two with tired, lazy eyes. He leaned forward and squinted.

“All this opulence,” Asaf whispered in Greek, “and he can’t even see it.”

“Father Abbot,” the novitiate said with a bow.

“What is it?” the Abbot replied, his voice slow and slurred as if he spoke with food in his mouth.

“This is Lord Gregory of Malmesbury, and he wishes lodging in our humble abbey,” the novitiate said.

“Our abbey is anything but humble,” Abbot Robert said.

“Too true, Father Abbot,” Thaddeus said with a bow. He looked at Asaf who also, reluctantly, bowed.

“And why are you in Winchester, Sir Gregory?” the Abbot asked, the saggy skin around his jaws moving like a hound’s jowls.

“Firstly, we came—Brother Callixtus and I—to see the progress of the new cathedral,” Thaddeus replied.

“Callixtus?” the Abbot asked. “An odd name.”

“It is Roman,” Asaf replied, flatly. “My father had an infatuation with all things Roman.”

“I would have changed it the moment I got the chance,” the Abbot said with a scoffing laugh.

“Yes, well,” Thaddeus said, speaking before Asaf’s mouth could get him in trouble, “the second reason we are here is to honor King William while he is in England … and entertaining a relative from Flanders nonetheless.”

“Ah, yes,” the Abbot said with a nod. “I suppose a minor manor lord might be invited to something like this.”

Abbot Robert was ripe with backhanded compliments and, even though Thaddeus felt himself an even-tempered man most days, he could feel his face grow hot. And, if rumors he had heard were true, this man simply bought his way into the position of Abbot … and then he bought his son into the same position at another abbey.

“Of course, you may stay,” Abbot Robert said with a wave of a thin and frail hand. “Just stay out of my monks’ ways. They have much to do and no time to tend to lesser nobles who decide to show up whenever they want.”

“You are too kind,” Thaddeus said with a bow and then let the novitiate lead them out of the room.

“I apologize, my lord,” the novitiate said. “Father Abbot Robert has become a bit short in his old age. And it seems that this visiting noblewoman has set him on edge. I do not know why.”

“His monks,” Asaf seethed as they followed the novitiate to their room.

“Peace, brother,” Thaddeus said. Then he addressed the novitiate. “No need to apologize. My father is the same way. What do you think has made him on edge?”

“I don’t know,” the novitiate said. “Ever since this Flemish lady has arrived, he has been very irritable.”

The young monk lowered his head and his voice.

“Truth be told,” he whispered, “I think Abbot Robert is always a little precarious because many of us know how he received his election. But he has been extra grumpy. And, if I am being honest, things have seemed strange in the city recently. It is a big city, my lord, so there is crime enough, but it seems worse. You saw that man asking for asylum. That seems to be a daily occurrence lately.”

“Truly?” Thaddeus asked, looking at Asaf over his shoulder.

“Yes,” the novitiate continued, “and the weather has been off. The animals have been off. I don’t know what it is, my lord.”

“A witch,” Asaf muttered.

“What was that, brother Callixtus?” the novitiate asked.

“Nothing,” Asaf replied.

They returned outside, and the novitiate led Thaddeus and his companions to the west range, up a flight of stairs, and to the monastery’s dormitory. Brant curled his nose when they walked past two sick people, lying in cots while several of the resident monks tended to them. Thaddeus shook his head. The man was truly heartless.

The man who had claimed asylum was there as well—Rowan, if Thaddeus remembered correctly. He had a face—square and flat with a nose that had obviously been broken several times—that showed several days of black stubble. It was dirty, as well, and the brown that smeared a part of his brow and cheek was most likely dried blood. His tattered shirt revealed hard worked muscles. He wrung his hands as he sat at the edge of his cot, and when he saw Thaddeus, he eyed the man nervously.

“What a ridiculous notion,” Brant whispered to himself.

“What’s that?” Thaddeus asked.

“Asylum,” Brant replied. “He’s a murderer. He should die. He admitted it. A sheriff should be able to march in here and take him without question.”

“We don’t know all the details,” Thaddeus said.

“Further proof that these Normans are weak,” Brant said, and then, in a lowered voice he clearly didn’t think Thaddeus could hear, added, “as well as you.”

“We only have one separate cell available, my lord,” the novitiate said, pointing to several rooms at the end of the dormitory, one of which had its door open. “I do apologize.”

“It is all right,” Thaddeus replied. “I will share my cell with Callixtus. My servants will sleep in a cot with your brother monks if that’s okay?”

“Of course, my lord,” the novitiate said with a bow.

“What do you think you are doing?” Brant asked when the novitiate left, his voice hard but low so that the monks, infirmed, and asylum seeker wouldn’t hear him.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Thaddeus said with a smile.

“You mean for me to sleep in the open space with the sickly, a murderer, and monks?” Brant asked, his face turning red again.

“Where else should you sleep?” Thaddeus asked. “You are a simple servant—at least while we are here. Do you really think you should sleep in the private cell? Gunnar, Alden, and Jarvis will be in the common room with you.”

“As they should be,” Brant said. “They are …”

“Dogs?” Gunnar interrupted.

“If you would like to sleep in the private cell,” Thaddeus said, still smiling, “you could sleep on the floor.”

“Dogs sleep on the floor,” Brant muttered.

The thane seemed all haughtiness and pomp, but Thaddeus watched as the man’s eyes trailed up to one of the small windows in the room and the crucifix that hung next to it. He looked nervous and turned away quickly, rubbing his face and groaning as he sat down at the edge of his cot. When the monks prayed over the sick, he looked away and cursed under his breath, and when the asylum-seeker looked at him, he growled.

“What are you looking at?” Brant hissed, and then muttered. “This is not even worthy of dogs.”

“Do not forget, thane,” Thaddeus said, “that our Lord Christ Jesus often spoke of the least and lowliest of men. The first shall be last, and the last shall be first.”

Brant gave him a squinted look of anger but didn’t say anything.

Later that evening, the six men took supper in the dining room with the rest of the monks of the abbey. Brant protested loudly, but Thaddeus forced him into going. They ended up sitting next to the man named Rowan—the murderer—and the man avoided eye contact, especially with Brant.

The Father Abbot sat at the head of the room. He stood before supper and prayed, everyone responding in kind as he asked for it; everyone except for Brant.

“This isn’t fit for dogs either,” Brant said, almost gagging as he threw his piece of hard bread into a bowl of brown broth. Some of its contents spilled onto the table. “I am going to an alehouse.”

“No,” Thaddeus said, grabbing the thane’s arm and keeping him in his seat.

Thaddeus couldn’t help seeing Rowan watching, nervously.

“You will sit, and you will eat,” Thaddeus whispered in the thane’s ear, “and you will do it with apparent joy.”

“Take your hand off me,” Brant hissed back. “I don’t take orders from you.”

“Here, in this place, you do,” Thaddeus replied. “Do you wish to help your lord regain his country or not?”

The thane turned to look at Thaddeus, and their eyes met. He had stared into many eyes. He even heard, once, that the eyes were a window into a man’s soul. That might have been true. This man’s eyes showed hate. Just the way they looked at him, glared at him, glimmered in the light.

Thaddeus watched Brant’s hands as they repeatedly squeezed into fists. The thane wanted to hit him, and a part of Thaddeus wanted him to act on his anger, it would give him an excuse to put the man in his place. But then Thaddeus admonished himself silently. That was a prideful coward’s thoughts.

“Clean up your mess,” Thaddeus repeated.

His eyes protested, but Brant did as he was told.

Supper was a quiet affair and quick. When the monks were dismissed, Thaddeus and his companions retired to the dormitory.

“Will they be all right out there?” Thaddeus asked, sitting at the edge of the bed while Asaf sat on a chair at the cell’s desk.

“Brant is a rat turd,” Asaf said. “He will never be all right.”

“There is something more to that man,” Thaddeus said. “He is so full of hate.”

“Most men are full of hate,” Asaf replied. “You just don’t see it as much as I do.”

“Will he do something stupid?” Thaddeus asked.

“Probably,” Asaf replied. “But Gunnar is with him, though.”

“The monks are probably in the scriptorium, yes?” Thaddeus asked.

“Some of them, yes,” Asaf replied.

“Do you miss it?” Thaddeus asked.

“What?” Asaf replied.

“This,” Thaddeus said, holding out his hands as if to present the whole abbey.

“Do I miss copying words for hours on end?” Asaf replied, a hint of irritation in his voice. But then he shrugged. “A little, I suppose. The silence was peaceful. I never enjoyed copying someone else’s words, though. I found great joy, however, in writing my own.”

“Truly?” Thaddeus asked.

“As Christ is my witness,” Asaf replied.

“Were the words you wrote about our Lord,” Thaddeus asked, “or about his Word?”

“Sometimes both,” Asaf replied. “But other times they were just stories.”

“Stories?” Thaddeus asked.

“Yes, stories,” Asaf replied. “Made up stories … tales with some ulterior meaning. Like Aesop’s fables, or Virgil’s Aeneid, or even Christ’s parables.”

“All these years,” Thaddeus said, “and I never knew that. Do you still have some of the stories you had written?”

“I do,” Asaf said.

The defrocked cleric stared at the only window. Thaddeus rarely saw his friend smile anymore, but he was doing so now. It was a good memory, those stories. It had to have been a memory from a simpler time. Truth be told, Thaddeus also wished for a simpler time, so many years ago.

CHAPTER 15

T  HE NOVITIATE WHO had welcomed them when they first came to the Abbey came to retrieve Thaddeus in the morning after they all broke their fast.

“I am sorry to bother you, my lord,” the novitiate said, “but yesterday, you said you had been invited to the banquet in honor of the visiting Flemish noblewoman and, yet, you were not on the guest list when the Father Abbot checked with the castle.”

Thaddeus’ stomach started to sink. They had been found out. Was the novitiate leading him to Norman guards?

“So, the Father Abbot took it upon himself to let the chancellor know of the error,” the novitiate said. He handed Thaddeus a rolled pieced of parchment. “Here is your invitation, my lord.”

Thaddeus grabbed the invitation with a quick bow and a smile.

“Thank you,” he said. “I will have to thank the Father Abbot personally.”

The novitiate bowed and turned to walk away.

“Can I ask a question?” Thaddeus asked.

“Of course, my lord,” the novitiate said, bowing.

“The man who came seeking asylum yesterday?”

“What about him, my lord?” the novitiate asked.

“Is he a local man, a villager?”

“I do not know, my lord,” the novitiate replied.

“Does this sort of thing happen often?” Thaddeus asked.

“Oddly enough, my lord, it has been happening quite often,” the novitiate replied, “recently.”

“What will happen to him?” Thaddeus asked.

“He will stay here until the sheriff comes to get him,” the novitiate replied. “He may be here a year or more, my lord. Who knows? It depends on his crime and, since he is a murderer, it depends on who he killed. Will that be all, my lord?”

“Yes, thank you,” Thaddeus said.

Thaddeus walked through the dormitory and jerked his head sideways when he made eye contact with Gunnar.

“Meet with me in the cell,” he said, “and help me tell the others.”

All five of his companions did as they were asked.

“We have received an invitation to a banquet the King is throwing,” Thaddeus said.

“When is it?” Brant asked.

“Tomorrow night,” Thaddeus replied.

“I am not going,” Brant said.

“Yes, you are,” Thaddeus replied. He squinted, knowing he was about to lie. “Count Stephen should be there. Don’t you wish to watch him?”

“How?” Brant asked. “I am but a lowly servant.”

“We must be at full strength tomorrow,” Thaddeus said, ignoring the thane’s sarcasm. He didn’t want to give away the fact that they were following a witch, but if they encountered her, and she became hostile, they may need Brant’s sword.

“There is only so much of your bullying I am willing to take,” the thane said. “You can pretend to be some noble, but you are not. Think on that as you try to force me to go to this banquet.”

Brant stormed out of the cell.

“It may not be a bad idea to leave him here,” Gunnar said, speaking in Greek so Alden and Jarvis wouldn’t understand him.

“Either way,” Thaddeus said, “he is creating problems.”

†

WHEN THADDEUS RETURNED to the dormitory that afternoon, he saw Rowan, the man who had sought asylum in the abbey, sitting by himself.

“You stay confined in here,” Thaddeus said in Frankish, “and yet, it is a beautiful day out.”

The sun had dared to peak through the clouds, and the colors of the flowers in the garden of the cloister looked extra brilliant, swaying in a gentle breeze and reminding Thaddeus of the rich fabrics—with all the colors of the rainbow—vendors sold from their market carts in Egypt.

Rowan had been sitting with his back to Thaddeus, and he spun quickly, Thaddeus’ voice startling the man. He saw Thaddeus, and his eyes went wide for a moment, and then he turned back around.

“There’s nothing beautiful about the days here,” Rowan said.

“Why do you say that?” Thaddeus asked.

“Aren’t you a lord?” Rowan asked. “Why are you talking to me?”

“There is no one else here to talk to,” Thaddeus replied.

Rowan shrugged.

“Why do you say this place has no beauty to it?” Thaddeus asked.

“I am a wanted man,” Rowan replied. “Where can I go? I have to stay here, in this abbey, until the sheriff retrieves me. I am only prolonging the inevitable.”

“Are you worried? If you are innocent, you will be acquitted of your crime,” Thaddeus said.

“Not in this place. There is no acquittal here, you’re a guilty man, no matter what. But I’m not innocent …” Rowan said, slowly turning back around and staring at Thaddeus. “I’m a murderer.”

“So, you are using the House of the Lord,” Thaddeus said, straightening his back, “to simply prolong your trial and execution.”

“Given my situation, I figured this would be the best place to hide in the time being,” Rowan said.

“Your situation?” Thaddeus asked.

“A church is the best place I could be,” Rowan said. “The people who want me dead can’t find me here.”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Thaddeus said, although Rowan’s eyes seemed to darken, and the corner of his mouth turned up into a slight smirk.

“It’s nothing,” Rowan said, turning around again.

Thaddeus stared at the man for a moment, watched him just stare at the wall and breathe.

“You killed one of her servants, didn’t you?” Thaddeus asked.

Rowan didn’t answer, but his head dropped as he sucked in a long breath and then slowly let it go. After a moment, Rowan looked at Thaddeus over his shoulder, his eyes downcast.

“No,” Thaddeus said, “no, you served her.”

Rowan slowly nodded.

“Do you know who I am?” Thaddeus asked.

“I do now,” Rowan said. “We were warned.”

“What do you mean to do?” Thaddeus asked.

“If you are asking if I am going to try to kill you,” Rowan said, standing and turning so that he faced Thaddeus, “then the answer is no.”

Thaddeus just stared at the man.

“The man I killed was also one of the witch’s servants,” Rowan said.

“You had a change of heart?” Thaddeus asked.

“You could say that,” Rowan replied.

“If you wish to pray …” Thaddeus began, but Rowan cut him off with a laugh.

“You Christians,” he said, still laughing, “you think that just because I don’t want to serve a witch, I want to be like you. To be honest, I don’t believe in a god. I think it’s foolishness. Tall tales to comfort children and dying men.”

“Then why can’t the witch enter the abbey grounds,” Thaddeus asked, “if it’s all rubbish?”

“Maybe she’s just never tried,” Rowan said with a shrug. “Maybe it’s some sort of magic. I don’t know, and I don’t care. I just know she can’t come here, and she won’t send her lackeys to come get me, lest she raise the ire of the king and the church. So, for now, I wait.”

“Then why leave the witch’s employ,” Thaddeus asked, “if you don’t believe there is a god?”

“This may come as a shock to you,” Rowan replied, “but you don’t have to be a Christian to think that wanton rape and murder and the slaughter of innocent children are wrong. I was … am in over my head. The promise of money and a woman has always got me into trouble. This was no different.”

“Who was the man you killed?”

“My friend,” Rowan said, looking at the floor.

“You said he was a Norman,” Thaddeus replied.

“He was. So am I. At least, my father was,” Rowan said. “We were sitting in an alehouse when I told him I meant to flee. I wanted him to come with me, of course. To him, it was as if I had lost my mind. He lost his and attacked me. I had no choice but to defend myself.”

Rowan opened his hands, palms still dirty and stained with old blood.

“Abbot Robert has granted me an audience,” Rowan said. “I mean to tell him what I’ve seen … what I’ve done. Maybe he can tell the king. No one else will listen to me.”

“I will listen,” Thaddeus said.

“She is going to be at some banquet,” Rowan said. “I don’t know how, but she has somehow wormed her way into William Rufus’ confidence. Probably offered him her cunt.”

“I knew she was going to be at the banquet,” Thaddeus said. “When I return from there, we will talk. The noose or stake is the least of your worries, although I can help you avoid those, as well.”

Rowan stared at Thaddeus, eyes squinted.

“You crossed a witch,” Thaddeus said. “The noose or stake might seem like good alternatives to what she can do to you, especially this one. If you help me stop her, I can protect you.”

Thaddeus extended his hand, and Rowan took it. He rifled through a belt pouch and retrieved a coin. He handed it to Rowan.

“Ask the monks if they would draw you a warm bath,” he said. “They will say no, but give them that, as an offering. They are always kinder to those who donate to their cause.”

“Err … Thank you.” Rowan stood and bowed.

“They will also feed you,” Thaddeus added, “more than the brown broth.”

Rowan nodded again.

“Make sure you stay here and stay safe,” Thaddeus said, “until we have a chance to talk.”

Brant walked into the dormitory as Rowan was leaving, and Brant made the man walk around him. When Rowan had gone, Brant walked up to Thaddeus and grabbed the man’s arm as if to pull him away from the door. Brant was a tall and lean man and had the muscles that most well-trained soldiers had. But even though he was a fraction taller than Thaddeus, the Greek was thicker and wider, years and years of training and fighting behind his strength. He stood his ground and looked down at the thane’s grip with a cocked eyebrow and flat lips and the Saxon immediately let go.

“I am not going to the banquet tonight,” Brant said. He sounded like a pouting child. “I cannot stand to be around so many Norman nobles. I don’t care if Count Stephen is there or not. If you ask me, we should ride back to Chesterfield and tell Prince Harold the Count is vacant from Richmond.”

Thaddeus was about to protest, but then he stopped and thought for a moment.

“Fine,” he replied. “And I am not asking you. We will stick with the plan.”

“What?” Brant said, a look of disbelief on his face. He had expected an argument.

Thaddeus didn’t trust Brant. He was a callous, bigoted man, but his mission—for the most part—was the same as Thaddeus’: To help the Saxon people, even if he was most concerned with the well-being of the Wessexers. Each had an extra goal, of course, and Brant’s was returning the Godwinsons to the throne while Thaddeus wished to kill a witch and rid England of her presence. But their course was still the same.

“I don’t care ...” Thaddeus said, but now he grabbed Brant’s arm and pulled him close. He smiled, slightly, as the thane struggled against his grip, failing to release himself. “... but you will stay here. In the abbey.”

“Where else would I go?” Brant asked.

Thaddeus just shrugged and let him go.

“The man who sought asylum here. He has a part to play in our mission too,” Thaddeus said.

Brant stared for a moment, his eyes squinted, and then he shook his head, clearly dismissing such a fanciful thought.

“What part could he play in all this?” Brant asked. “He’s a murderer. And, by the looks of him, a Norman. He spoke Frankish.”

“He has something to do with the atrocities being committed to your people in Richmond,” Thaddeus explained, “knowledge of what is going on with the House of Renne and King William.”

“What is he doing in an abbey, then?” Brant hissed. “We should throw him out and burn him at the stake.”

“Listen,” Thaddeus whispered. “He is trying to flee the …”

Thaddeus almost said the word witch but managed to stop himself. He looked at Brant, watched his eyes.

“Trying to flee the what?” Brant asked.

“The Normans,” Thaddeus replied.

“Clearly,” Brant said. “He killed one of them.”

Thaddeus continued to watch Brant, who seemed weighed down by his gaze. He turned away, eventually staring at his feet.

“There is something much bigger happening here,” Thaddeus said. Did he chance to tell the thane? Perhaps, if he knew what they were really doing, he would be more helpful.

“What?” Brant asked.

“This mission is more than just trying to regain the throne of England for the Godwinsons. Or overthrowing the House of Renne or William.”

“What is it then?” Brant asked.

“A witch,” Thaddeus said, keeping his voice low.

“What?” Brant asked, jerking his head back, his mouth and eyes glaring back in disbelief. “Do you take me for a fool? Some peasant who believes in fairy tales?”

“It’s no fairy tale,” Thaddeus said. “A witch has been poisoning Count Stephen—and Alan Rufus before him—and now she seeks the mind of King William.”

“So, you could care less for the Saxon people and their plight,” Brant said, stepping forward defiantly. “You think you can simply lie?”

“I do care,” Thaddeus said. “Listen to me you …”

“Lies,” Brant said, staring eye to eye with Thaddeus.

“It’s no lie,” Thaddeus said.

“If anyone serves the Devil,” Brant said, “it’s you.”

“The man Rowan; his eyes tell the truth,” Thaddeus said. “I have sent him to eat and bathe now, but tonight, when I am at the banquet, you are to watch him, and make sure nothing happens to him.”

“I am no nursemaid,” Brant said, standing defiantly in front of Thaddeus. “And I am certainly not doing something for some backward Devil worshipper.”

Thaddeus stepped closer to the thane.

“I don’t care if you believe me or not about the witch,” Thaddeus said, “but accuse me of worshipping the Devil one more time, and you will not see another moment of this life.”

“This is ridiculous,” Brant said, but the fight seemed to have left him.

“You will do as you are told,” Thaddeus said, getting tired of Brant’s attitude again.

Brant was about to protest. Thaddeus could tell that much. He puffed his chest out and opened and closed his hands into fists. But then he backed up and relented.

“Fine,” Brant said, sounding like a pouting child again.

Thaddeus just gave the man a look and walked away; he had better things to worry about. His mission … their mission was about to get much more dangerous and precarious as he prepared to come face to face with the witch.

CHAPTER 16

A  GATEHOUSE STOOD at the start of the drawbridge that led over a wide moat and past the front gate that opened into the bailey of Winchester castle. The walls were stone, another testament to the ingenuity of the Romans. Some scaffolding was present, where the stone left by the Romans had crumbled away and the Normans were replacing it, but the castle would one day be an even more imposing sight than it already was.

Thaddeus sat in Polimestes’ saddle, doing his best to look haughty and insincere. Gunnar, dressed in a knee-length hauberk, conical helm, and carrying his spear, led the destrier by its reins. Asaf, wearing brown robes and bearing a large, wooden cross around his neck, rode a much smaller palfrey while Jarvis and Alden walked behind them. Two guards eyed the men closely from under their own conical helms. Both men wore knee-length tunics bearing the symbol of William Rufus—a lion reared up and ready to strike—and both carried kite shields that covered their whole body.

Gunnar handed one of the soldiers a rolled piece of parchment—Thaddeus’ invite to the royal banquet. The soldiers inspected the invite momentarily. Most likely they couldn’t read, but they didn’t need to. All they needed to do was look for the King’s seal. One looked up at Thaddeus, put his right thumb to his forehead, gave the man a quick bow, and said, “m’lord.”

Across the drawbridge, the courtyard bustled with life, servants running here and there, and tending to the animals of the many nobles that had been invited to attend the King’s banquet. Even though a myriad of buildings sat along wooden and stone walls, all work had stopped, every resource and servant turned their attention to the needs of the guests.

Thaddeus looked up to see a tall, wooden keep looming over the bailey, sitting atop a high, earthen mound surrounded by a wooden palisade of logs all sharpened to points. Another gatehouse sat in front of a walled, wooden bridge that led up to the motte, a steady stream of people walking along the bridge towards the tower.

Gunnar showed the guards at this new gatehouse their invitation, and they nodded them through. The climb up the bridge was steep, and Thaddeus couldn’t help giving a short laugh when Gunnar looked at him over his shoulder and scowled. He definitely owed the Norseman.

“I still don’t understand why you let the thane stay behind,” Gunnar said, breathing heavy as they made the steep climb up to the keep.

“It wasn’t worth the argument,” Thaddeus said.

“You’re getting soft,” Asaf added.

“Would you rather him moaning and complaining the whole time,” Thaddeus asked, “and giving away our pretense?”

“I suppose not,” Asaf replied. “He’s such a rat turd.”

“No one will argue with you on that,” Thaddeus said. “But, nonetheless, he is a rat turd who is on our side, with the same goal as we.”

“The good Lord knows we’ve had several of those in our time together, eh Thadd—I mean, Sir Gregory?” Gunnar asked.

“Indeed,” Thaddeus replied with a smile.

Servants gathered in front of the keep, a four storied, wooden building that looked even larger up close.

“Stay here,” Thaddeus said to Alden and Jarvis. “The guards will bring you in when the food is served.”

Jarvis looked uncomfortable, especially without his thane around. It almost seemed as if the huscarl missed having someone abuse him.

“I don’t like this,” Jarvis said, speaking in the Saxon tongue.

“Behave yourself, good servant, and don’t speak,” Thaddeus said with a small smile, but his smile quickly faded as a faint, fetid stink hit his nose.

Thaddeus looked to Asaf and Gunnar.

“She is here,” he murmured in Latin.

The other two nodded.

“What did you say?” Jarvis asked.

Thaddeus noticed two soldiers looking at the Saxon, eyebrows raised as he spoke casually to the man who masqueraded as his master. Thaddeus quickly backhanded the huscarl, drawing just a trickle of blood from the corner of the man’s mouth as he went to the ground, surprise mixed with anger present in his wide eyes.

“How dare you speak to me,” Thaddeus said, keeping his ruse as a Frankish noble.

Jarvis looked like he was about to say something. He gave Thaddeus a different look than he gave Brant when the thane hit him. The look he gave the thane was one of defeat, like a broken dog or a tamed horse. But the look he gave Thaddeus was one of anger and defiance. A part of Thaddeus was glad for the look. He was still a man, after all. But as he was about to open his mouth, the Norman soldiers closed in, and he looked down to the ground and bowed.

“My lord,” one of the soldiers said, “would like us to take him to the stockades?”

“No,” Thaddeus replied. “He will not be any more trouble. I apologize for the commotion.”

“No apology needed, my lord.”

“These Saxons are worse than wild horses,” a woman said as she passed by Thaddeus. “You have to break them. Sometimes it is to their death, but the others will obey.”

She was a short, dark-haired woman who wore a blue gown over a white chemise, its bottom stained brown from mud. She was anything but a high noble, but she was noble nonetheless, and she stared at Jarvis and Alden, and even Gunnar, over the end of her short, wide nose. Thaddeus looked at her and nodded. He followed the woman through the ground floor of the keep, the storage area, and kitchen of the tower.

“Have you been to one of William Rufus’ banquets before?” the woman asked, looking at Thaddeus over her shoulder with a seductive smile.

He just shook his head. She must have been somewhat familiar with the King and the royal family, using his informal name.

“They are rather droll things,” she added. “He can’t dance, and he’ll probably be drunk already. He is loud and rude, and his taste in food is so common. If you get bored, my lord, you should come talk to me.”

“I will remember that,” Thaddeus said with a smile as the noblewoman winked at him. “What was your name, my lady?”

But she never answered. As they crested the top of the stairs and entered the Great Hall of Winchester’s keep, a chubby man with pockmarked skin, oily hair, and a splotchy beard met the woman—presumably her husband. When she looked at Thaddeus again, the man glared at him. She must have been known for sneaking around behind her husband.

“By the rood,” Asaf said softly in Hebrew.

“If this is a droll affair,” Gunnar said, “I wonder what their lively banquets look like.”

“The Romans were known for such lavishness, weren’t they, Thaddeus?” Asaf asked.

“Aye, they were,” Thaddeus replied.

The Great Hall was a large, high-ceiling room. The great table was set up on a dais at one end, a large banner displaying the lion of William Rufus hanging on the wall. As Thaddeus washed his hands in a large basin, he noticed the King slouching in his throne-like chair, positioned in the exact middle of the great table. Even slouching, he was a large man with long, red hair, a ruddy complexion, and a thick, red mustache. His crown, a simple gold band with five points, sat haphazardly angled on his head, and he slurped something from a large, golden chalice, seeming to care little for anyone around him.

Servants rushed about, setting gold and silver plates in front of the King and his esteemed guests, the men and women selected to sit with him at his great table. Several other tables had been placed along the walls of the Great Hall, bearing the food that was being served, but one stood apart, a multi-tiered thing covered with a white tablecloth. It was the King’s buffet. Where the other serving tables held simple meats and stews, this buffet boasted stuffed birds, a roasted pig, and other delicacies.

“Name, my lord,” a lazy-eyed usher standing next to the washbasin said.

“Gregory of Malmesbury,” Thaddeus replied.

“And these men?” the usher asked, presenting an open hand to Alden, Jarvis, Asaf, and Gunnar.

“Callixtus, a Benedictine monk from Malmesbury traveling with me, and my servants,” Thaddeus replied.

“They will sit when all the lords and ladies are seated and served,” the usher said, “in the back. Jonas will lead you to your seat, Lord Malmesbury.”

The usher bowed, and a small boy led Thaddeus to a long table towards the back of the room. He pretended to be a simple lord, a lowly knight of little note, and that meant he would sit towards the rear of all the nobles. The people with whom he sat looked upset, irritated at being sat so far in the back, but Thaddeus was glad for it. It was part of his plan to remain unnoticed.

Thaddeus’ food was served on a wide, hard, flat piece of bread. He had heard of this before, and the bread—the trencher—having soaked up the juices and jellies of all the food that would be served, would be given as alms to the poor peasants of Winchester, a gesture of kindness from the King. The wine the cupbearer served Thaddeus tasted slightly sour. He knew the wine that the dapifer and his cupbearer served the King, and his table would be sweet and strong enough to have already gotten the King drunk as the big, red man looked out over the banquet, his face already a rosy color. Where the dapifer served the King and his table, simple servant boys served Thaddeus. And where the King and the great table received six courses, including delectable looking sweets, the servants only offered Thaddeus and his table four.

As they ate, several of his table companions brought him into meaningless conversation occasionally, but mostly they seemed to know each other and left Thaddeus alone, which suited him perfectly. One of the men sitting next to him, another lowly lord from the western reaches of William’s kingdom, drank too much, to the chagrin of his wife, and started bumping Thaddeus’ elbow and telling him crude and lewd tales of his life pre-marriage.

Several minstrels performed after the King’s third course, a juggler danced and did small tricks—sleights of the hand—after the fourth course, and a troubadour recited several poems after the fifth that caused some of the ladies in the Great Hall, including the short noblewoman who had winked at Thaddeus, to swoon and blush.

Thaddeus looked over his shoulder, at Jarvis, Alden, Gunnar, and Asaf. They sat at a servants’ table. Jarvis and Alden seemed to be enjoying themselves, digging into the one course they received and probably relishing something other than jerked meat or monkish brown broth. But Gunnar looked apprehensive, and Asaf looked irritated. Thaddeus nodded, and the cleric shook his head.

“Are those servants bothering you?” the drunk lord asked.

“No,” Thaddeus replied with a smile. “They are my servants. I was making sure they were behaving themselves.”

“I keep telling Simon that,” his wife said, “He’s too soft on the servants, too busy drinking.”

Sir Simon looked at his wife, swaying slightly, and scoffed.

“Shut up, woman,” Simon said, and his wife just glared at him.

As the dinner finished, and many in the hall readied themselves for the dance that would ensue, a familiar stink hit Thaddeus’ nose. He looked up, to the great table, and saw a tall, slender woman with a soft face and long, dark ringlets enter from a rear door. The tall woman—beautiful and seductive—led an older woman, arm in arm, to a spot next to William Rufus.

“Countess Adelaide of Normandy,” the lord next to Thaddeus said, elbowing him once again.

“Who?” Thaddeus asked.

“Countess Adelaide,” Simon replied, “the King’s aunt. It is said that she holds more lands in England than any other Norman woman.”

“Why is she here?” Thaddeus asked as the woman looked up at the tall, dark-haired beauty, patting her hand gently and gingerly sitting next to the King. William Rufus seemed to have no idea that the woman now sat there.

“I don’t know,” Simon said with a shrug. “Came with that younger woman, apparently. Some Flemish noblewoman. Don’t mind that she’s here. Easy on the eyes. Nice tits. Probably a distant cousin to the king.”

Simon’s wife elbowed him, but he was drunk and simply laughed as her face turned a deep shade of red, Thaddeus suspected from both embarrassment and anger.

The tall, Flemish woman looked out into the Great Hall, and when her eyes met Thaddeus’, they had a glimmer to them … a reddish tint that he recognized.

As soon as the food was gone, the trenchers taken out to be given to the common folk of Winchester, and the tables moved to the side of the room to make space for dancing, the crowd of people filled in, men forming an inner circle and women forming a large circle around them. The minstrels, sitting in a corner of the room, began to play, and the men and women danced. Several women approached the King, but he shrugged them off. He looked irritated as his aunt spoke to him, and every time he said something, the Flemish woman would laugh and gently touch his arm. William Rufus just looked at the woman’s hand with disdain and looked away, only paying attention when his aunt would speak again.

“Would you dance with me?”

It was the short noblewoman, and her voice took Thaddeus by surprise, as did her hand gripped firmly on one of his buttocks.

“Shouldn’t you dance with your husband?” Thaddeus asked. He could see Gunnar from the corner of his eye, standing against the wall and laughing.

“He’s a terrible dancer,” she said. “Besides, he’s probably up there trying to speak with the King.”

“Oh,” Thaddeus said. “The King seems rather preoccupied.”

He gave the woman a short bow, to which she curtsied, and then they started their dance, making sure not to touch.

“I would suspect he is, at the moment,” the woman said, a smile growing on her face as she leaned in closer to Thaddeus. Even though he towered over her, he felt small at the moment.

“And why is that?” Thaddeus asked.

“Have you not heard?” she asked.

“Heard?”

“What is your name?” the woman asked.

“What is yours?” Thaddeus replied.

“You first,” she said, trying her best to be seductive, even though her breath smelled heavily of wine and onions, doing anything but seducing Thaddeus.

“Gregory,” Thaddeus said.

“Eleanor,” she said.

“So, what is it that I haven’t heard?” Thaddeus asked.

Eleanor giggled and rubbed her chubby fingers across Thaddeus’ chest.

“The Scots,” she said. “They’re as bad as the Saxons. Worse even, preferring the company of each other to women. They ravaged Northumbria. I don’t know why the King cares. Northumbrians are the worst of the Saxons.”

“Ah, yes,” Thaddeus replied. “King Malcolm, yes?”

Eleanor nodded.

“Is this the matter with which your husband wishes an audience with the King?” Thaddeus asked.

“Yes,” Eleanor said with an exasperated roll of her eyes. “Richard is such a fool and has his nose deep in the King’s backside. He wants William to send him north, so he might earn fame and title, along with the other turds that care for lost Saxon lands and scabby Scots.”

“The King is sending more men north?” Thaddeus asked, playing into his pretense as a minor lord barely in the know.

“Yes,” Eleanor replied, giving Thaddeus a look with a tilted head and raised eyebrow. “Where have you been? Under a rock?”

“I’ve been traveling for some time now,” Thaddeus replied, not necessarily lying. “I took a pilgrimage to Rome and the Holy Lands. I’ve just recently returned.”

“Oh,” Eleanor said, moving closer to Thaddeus and batting her eyes, “a traveler, are we?”

“Somewhat,” Thaddeus replied. “Do these Scots pose such a threat to William?”

“No,” Eleanor replied. She seemed bored, then. “The King is irritated, I think. He was in France, fighting his brother, but Malcolm forced him back to England. Now, when he would rather be fighting, he needs to entertain this Flemish noblewoman at the request of his aunt who supports his brother Robert over him. Her being his father’s sister, he will relent to whatever request she makes, except for relinquishing his Norman lands to his brother. He’s an adept soldier, so I’ve heard, and an expert tactician. When he is sober.”

Eleanor looked in the King’s direction with longing eyes. Her husband was finally speaking with the King, and when he gave his wife a quick glance, she wiggled her fingers in a sheepish wave and gave a pretend giggle. If only he knew.

“Lady Eleanor,” Thaddeus said with a quick bow, “I must bid you adieu.”

“Are you leaving so soon?” she replied, grabbing Thaddeus’ hips and trying to pull him close, even as her husband certainly saw.

“I must,” Thaddeus said, pulling away easily and giving the woman a quick bow. “Thank you for the dance. I too must speak with the King.”

Thaddeus walked to where Jarvis, Alden, Asaf, and Gunnar stood against the wall of the Great Hall.

“That’s her,” Asaf said, nodding to the tall, dark-haired woman as she began to speak with William Rufus.

The King looked even more irritated as the woman spoke. He rolled his eyes on several occasions and almost refused to look her in her face. He drank from that same grand goblet, even as the witch giggled and touched his arm gently. Countess Adelaide joined them, supported by the dark-haired woman, and the King seemed to pay a little more attention to what the witch was saying, but only a little.

All three of the witch hunters watched intently as Jarvis and Alden stared on, not really understanding what was going on.

“He’s a strong-willed one, isn’t he?” Asaf asked.

“What do you mean?” Alden asked.

Jarvis just stared as they spoke Latin; more testimony to the mistreatment by Brant. The least he could have done was taught his house soldier the church’s language.

“She is trying to enchant him, clearly,” Asaf said.

“I have to stop her,” Thaddeus said.

“Oh, and how?” Asaf asked. “Are you going to simply walk up to the King and interrupt his conversation with his aunt? With his reputation as having a bad temper, that rat turd would probably have you shackled and beheaded before you knew what happened. Besides, it seems he’s resisting her charms rather well.”

“Maybe he doesn’t like women,” Gunnar suggested.

“I’ve heard that rumor,” Thaddeus added with a smile.

“It’s true,” Alden said.

“You don’t know that,” Gunnar said, rolling his eyes.

“Yes, I do,” Alden said.

“Why?” Gunnar asked. “You’ve been with the King?”

Alden looked angry, even though Gunnar was smiling intently.

“I’ve also heard he has a hundred bastard children running around in this wide world,” Gunnar said. “You can’t believe the rumors that go around about nobility.”

“The Normans are fighting the Scots in the north … the result of broken peace talks,” Thaddeus said.

“So,” Gunnar said.

“And William Rufus is at odds with his brother, Robert Curthose,” Thaddeus added.

“What’s your point?” Asaf asked.

“Doesn’t it seem odd that all this strife is happening, just as a witch plagues these lands,” Thaddeus said. “She desires death and discord for her master. This must be her doing.”

“Men, desire death and discord, Thaddeus,” Asaf said softly. “This is nothing new. You don’t need a witch or the Devil for that. War. Strife. Envy. Human sin is what I see.”

“Still,” Thaddeus said, “I think it is her doing.”

The witch kept talking to the King. Any nobleman that approached, wishing to have an audience with William, turned around and walked away as soon as she glared at them. It might have been the hatred in her eyes that drove them away or a simple charm, but nonetheless, she consumed his time. And then Thaddeus saw them again … her eyes. Those evil eyes glowed, ever so faintly, with that reddish tint, but for a brief moment they flared, and the King’s eyes glimmered in response. Now, he seemed to relax a little, softly stroking his mustache as he more readily engaged in conversation with the witch and his aunt. He even laughed.

“She has him,” Thaddeus said.

As he continued to watch the king and the witch, the people around him seemed to disappear. The commotion quieted until he could barely hear the music anymore. Then the voices softened, and all he heard was his own breathing. He knew they were there, the other people, dancing, laughing, and talking, but he couldn’t notice them. All he saw, all he knew at that moment, were the king, the witch, and he. She turned her head slowly, a small smile on her face. She scanned the crowd until her eyes caught Thaddeus’. When their gazes locked, her smile widened.

CHAPTER 17

T  HADDEUS MADE HIS WAY towards William. The King couldn’t even take his eyes off the witch now, so entranced by her. She spoke and giggled, and he laughed along with her, his aunt leaning in on the tall woman all the while, gently patting her hand as she intertwined her arm around the witch’s. Thaddeus dodged dancers and politely bowed and shook his head as several ladies asked him to dance. As he got closer to the king and the witch, it seemed the crowd thickened, and he found himself pushing his way past people. One man even turned and puffed out his chest at Thaddeus.

“Watch yourself,” the man said, glaring at Thaddeus with drunk eyes.

“My extreme apologies,” Thaddeus said with a bow.

The man just grumbled and turned, stumbling about as he attempted to dance.

Thaddeus finally made his way to the small dais on which the king and the witch stood in front of their chairs, now pulled into a small triangle that worked to stop others approach the king. At first, their conversation seemed more small talk than anything else. The witch spoke of Flanders and the drollness of the French court. The king also spoke of the boring nature of the French court and giggled, almost child-like, when the witch touched his arm.

“France is so boring,” the witch said. Her voice was smooth and melodic, and Thaddeus couldn’t help sensing a seductive quality to it, like a woman trying to coax her lover into bed. “Let us talk about something more exciting.”

“What could be more exciting than talking about defeating my brother Robert in battle and reclaiming my French lands?” the king exclaimed. He was ever the student of war. “Even if my aunt doesn’t think I should.”

The witch patted the old woman’s hand.

“I have begun to change my mind, nephew,” Adelaide said in a croaking, shaky voice. “I think I was wrong about your brother Robert.”

“Truly?” the king asked with a smile.

But Thaddeus noticed, as the old woman spoke, the witch’s lips moved as if she was speaking with her. The witch patted Adelaide’s hand again, and the old woman simply stared at William with a fragile smile on her face.

“What is more exciting than France?” the witch said with a soft moan, putting a finger to her lips as if thinking, but kissing her finger.

She giggled a bit and bit her fingernail, childish at first, but then her smile disappeared, her eyelids closed halfway, and she moaned, ever so slightly as she inserted the finger into her mouth and closed her lips over it. The king shifted uneasily.

“How about the Scots?” the witch asked. “This King Malcolm?”

“Bah,” the king said, waving a hand. For a moment, the trance he had been in seemed to break. “A backward king leading a backward people.”

“An exciting people, though,” the witch said. “They run about naked, painting their bodies. When they fight, it is with passion. And all those …”

The witch seemed to shudder with excitement, even crossing her legs momentarily. It was all pretense, that much Thaddeus knew, but nonetheless, she reached out and squeezed William’s arm, sighing in awe as she did so.

“… muscles,” she finished.

“I will show them true muscle,” the king said, moving closer to the witch. He flexed his arm for her and then reached down and grabbed his crotch. “I’ll show them how a true man fights.”

“Do you not feel embarrassed by this Malcolm?” the witch asked as she turned a shoulder away from the king and looked towards the ground, almost pouting.

Her lips seemed to plump and glow a deep red. Her cheeks blushed, and her dark ringlets fell across her shoulder, silhouetting her breasts just right. The way she moved her hips reminded Thaddeus of Persian belly dancers, emulating a lover’s dance in the bedchamber.

“Embarrassed?” the King said. “Malcolm has done anything but.”

“But he marches south, does he not?” she asked, still pouting. Then she faced the king again, a smile on her face, eyes wide with excitement. “Do you not wish to stop him?”

William let out a heavy, irritated sigh, causing his red mustache to flutter.

“He has holdings all over England,” the witch continued. “This Scottish King challenges you, Your Majesty.”

William slammed a fist into the palm of his other hand, his already ruddy face growing redder.

“I will crush him,” William said. “I will take all his holdings, and I will destroy his family. I will march into Scotland and put it under my boot like I have England.”

William meant to leave right then and there, but the witch put a hand on his wrist. It was a death sentence for anyone, to touch the king in such a way, but he eased at her touch, smiling, almost batting his eyes like a young girl stricken by a handsome knight.

“Stay a while longer, William,” the witch said seductively.

William looked down at the hand on his wrist. He looked irritated at first, but then, meeting the witch’s eyes with his own, he smiled.

“All right,” he said.

“Have you heard of what is happening in the Holy Land?” the elderly Adelaide asked with a shaky voice.

Thaddeus noticed, once again, the witch’s lips moving in synchronization with Adelaide’s.

“And what is that, aunt?” William said.

Thaddeus moved even closer, trying to avoid dancers and a growing number of drunken nobles stumbling about. He overheard the elderly woman speaking of the scourge of Christ—the Muslims—harassing the Byzantine Empire.

“Who cares about the Byzantine church?” William asked. “They’re as heathen as the Muslims.”

“Your brother does,” Adelaide replied. “He is preparing to go to the Holy Land. To protect the roads the Christian pilgrims take to see the Holy City. Robert is proving he is a good, Christian lord.”

“Robert,” the King said through clenched teeth.

“The people love him,” the witch said.

“Because he is weak,” the King hissed. “He tries to make up for his short stature.”

“You are so right,” the witch said, almost nestling into the King. “You may be a hard man …” she added, subtly reaching to grab his crotch, “… but you will be known for your victory on the battlefield and your discipline.”

“Should I go east, to the Holy Land?” William asked.

“It is not my place to advise a king,” the witch said, turning away again. But this time, she didn’t pout. She brushed a hand up her leg, lifting her dress and caressing her buttocks. She turned back to the king, moving closer and pressing herself against him, making sure her large breasts brushed an arm and pushed against his body. “You would be a king among kings. The champion of Christ. Your name would be sung for all the ages and, surely, the Lord would sit you next to Christ for your victory in his kingdom here on earth.”

The witch’s voice was a whisper, but Thaddeus heard her. As she spoke the Lord’s name, she faltered a bit. The king didn’t hear the stumble as she forced herself to speak the name of God, but Thaddeus did, and he could tell she had to force herself to speak His name.

“I will first crush this rebellion by the Scots,” William said, resolutely. As the witch squeezed the king’s arm, he straightened his back and puffed out his chest. “Then, I will regain my family’s lands in Normandy. Clearly my brother hasn’t learned his lesson. Just last year I forced him to give me some twenty castles in Normandy.”

“Well done, Your Majesty,” the witch cooed.

“And then, I will go to the Holy Lands and dispatch the heathen bastards harassing good Christian pilgrims,” William added. “And maybe in the process, I will retake the east and give those lands back to the Catholic church.”

“Your sainthood would be guaranteed,” said the witch, almost under her breath. As the feigned excitement on her face grew, she almost looked as if she was going to climax. She closed her eyes and let out a moan of ecstasy. The king clenched a fist and raised it, triumphantly.

“Your Majesty,” Thaddeus said as he stepped up in between the king and the witch. He could hear her hiss, ever so softly, and he felt her gaze fall upon him.

“What is it?” the King said.

“I just wish to extend my thanks to you, for your invitation,” Thaddeus said. “I am but a lowly lord and am honored to experience the opulence and generosity that is King William.”

“Who are you?” the King asked.

“Indeed,” the witch added.

“Gregory of Malmesbury,” Thaddeus replied.

“Malmesbury?” the King mused, tugging at a mustache. “I’m familiar with your estates, but I’ve never heard of you.”

“Neither have I,” the witch added. She glared at Thaddeus, and her eyes narrowed, and her plumped red lips turned thin and purple. When they pursed, a look of anger crossed the King’s face.

“I would expect not, Your Majesty,” Thaddeus said with a low bow. “I am far too lowly a lord for the likes of a King such as yourself to bother to know who I am. I am barely of noble birth. I am at a loss, however, for I do not know this lovely lady.”

Thaddeus grabbed the witch’s hand, the one that she had been resting on the King, and pressed his lips to it. The taste made him want to vomit, and her stink was toe-curling, but he kept his pretense. She withdrew her hand quickly, wiping the back of it against her dress.

“Renata of Flanders,” the witch replied.

“She is my guest, along with my father’s sister, Lady Adelaide,” the King added. “Did you only wish to thank me for my invitation?”

“Well, no,” Thaddeus said with a smile. “I also heard you are sending an army north, to fight King Malcolm and the Scots.”

“Yes,” William said. He still seemed irritated, but as Thaddeus spoke, his anger subsided.

“I would like to offer my sword,” Thaddeus said.

“A way to make more of a name for yourself,” William said.

“Truly, Your Majesty,” Thaddeus said.

The King seemed more of his cantankerous self again; his attention focused on Thaddeus and not the witch.

“We will see,” the King said. “In due time, I will call men to my banner.”

“And what of these dealings in the east?” Thaddeus asked.

“What dealings?” William asked. He puffed his cheeks, his face redder than before. “By the rood, how does a lowly lord know of this before me?”

“I, again, only wish to travel with you, if you make your way to the Holy Lands,” Thaddeus said with a bow. “Perhaps one more way to elevate my family and fight for the King we, in England, all love.”

William eyed Thaddeus, looking him up and down. He huffed, gave Thaddeus, the witch, and his aunt a short, curt bow, turned and walked away.

“You think you are clever,” the witch said, her voice soft and gentle, but the true intention of displaying her anger was clear.

“My lady?” Thaddeus questioned.

“You can drop the pretense,” the witch said, “Gregory … or should I say, Thaddeus.”

“Who is this Thaddeus …” Thaddeus began to say, but the witch cut him off.

“You are in over your head. You think you know so much, have been around for so long. You know nothing, Laconian. You are a fool. William will be mine,” the witch said, “and he will do my bidding.”

The softness in the witch’s face—the rounded chin and soft cheeks, the button nose, and plump lips—changed. She looked angular and hard, like the rough carving of a statue. Her voice changed to almost a growl, and any seduction had left. Thaddeus saw her clenching a fist, and the muscles around her jaw tightened as she clenched her teeth. She stepped towards Thaddeus and narrowed her eyes. There was no attempt of seduction on her face or in her body. She was ready for a fight.

“You speak so freely, in front of the King’s aunt?” Thaddeus asked, but the witch only laughed.

“You have been around long enough, Thaddeus,” the witch said, and as she moved her mouth, he could see Adelaide moving hers in synchronization to Renata’s, “to know not everything is as it seems.”

As he suspected, the king’s aunt was merely a puppet. Was she even alive? Was she real? Thaddeus couldn’t tell. She was simply a way for the witch to work herself into the presence of the King and enchant him.

The witch stared at Thaddeus, her eyes shimmering.

“If you know who I am,” Thaddeus said, “and where I come from, and who I serve, then you should know your simple charms won’t work on me.”

The witch straightened her back with a smile on her face. She was a tall woman, with a long neck and narrow shoulders and soft, wide hips. Her face softened, returning to its feminine shape. The paint that lined her eyes and shadowed her eyelids darkened, accentuating her deep grayish-blue pupils, which slowly turned to a darker shade of purple. Her lips changed back to a deep red and plumped. She pursed them, not angrily, but as if she was going to kiss Thaddeus. She stepped even closer to him, pressing her breasts against his chest. They were firm, yet soft, and he could imagine the hardness of her nipples, poking him like fingers. She moaned as she rubbed a soft finger along Thaddeus’ cheek. He jerked his head away, but then looked back at the witch.

“Oh, I am no simple enchantress,” the witch said, “and there is nothing simple about my charms,” she added, echoing his stress of the word.

“I love how you witches always come up with some fancy name for yourselves,” Thaddeus said. “Why don’t you just call yourself what you are … a witch, Lucifer’s whore.”

“Such language for a servant of God,” teased the witch with a shake of a finger.

Her back to the room, she pressed herself even closer to Thaddeus. He wanted to back away but didn’t. As one hand stroked his cheek, another grabbed his hip. She was much stronger than she looked, and despite his efforts not to be aroused, he could feel himself stiffen as she ground her crotch against his. He felt his face flush and his heart quicken before he blinked as if trying to rid himself of a deep sleep. She put her mouth next to his ear and said nothing, only blew gently against his skin and moaned as if he were deep inside her.

“I should kill you here and now,” Thaddeus said, pushing away, only slightly, just giving a small amount of space between himself and the witch.

“You should,” the witch said with a smile. She closed the distance between her and Thaddeus again, the hand touching his face falling to his chest. She cooed and whispered, “So strong … so powerful.”

The hand that was on his hip moved to his crotch, and she squeezed and rubbed. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He held his breath as he stifled a moan of his own. She smiled, tilting her chin up, ever so slightly, as if she felt the same pleasure as he, her eyelids resting, lazily, halfway over her eyes.

“So big as well as strong,” she repeated. Her voice was a whisper. “You could kill me easily. It would solve all your problems. You could slay me with your ... sword …”

She squeezed his erection hard.

“… you could stab me over and over and over again until you have had your fill. Until your blade finally has had its fill of flesh and the pleasure of slaying me has fulfilled your blood ... lust.”

She hung on the word lust as her hand grabbed his hip, pulling him even closer as her other hand worked its magic. Involuntarily, he closed his eyes and smelled honey and berries, felt soft skin against his. A vision of a woman—this Renata—lying on a bed with him filled his mind. She was naked, as was he. She touched him, kissed him, all over his body. It was a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time, a moment he had shared with someone else, so long ago. And then the witch wasn’t Renata, but another woman, someone else Thaddeus knew …

Thaddeus opened his eyes. They narrowed and he reached down, grabbing both her wrists and pinning her arms to her sides. He looked over her shoulder, to Jarvis, Alden, Asaf, and Gunnar. They stood and waited, against the far wall of the Great Hall. All he had to do was jerk his head, call to them, and they would come, and they would finish this evil bitch. Wulfstan would be happy. Prince Harold would be happy. The people of Richmond would be happy. The Lord God would be happy. And what about the King and his soldiers? Surely, God would protect them.

They had surrendered their swords at the gatehouse leading up to the keep, but Thaddeus always kept a knife hidden within his sleeves. Years of fighting had taught him to always be prepared. He looked to the witch. His eyes must have given away his intentions.

“Come,” the witch said, the King’s aunt mouthing the same words in unison with Renata. “Come to me, Thaddeus, servant of God.”

Even with her arms pinned to her sides, she smiled and cooed. He let go of her wrists.

“You think you are so mighty,” she continued. “You think your God is so mighty and, yet, look at what he has done to you. You are but a puppet.”

Thaddeus went to grab her again, but his arms were immobile, stuck to his body. He couldn’t move.

“You see, I am no simple enchantress,” Renata said. “You are a slave. Look at me. I do as I wish. I experience pleasure as I wish.”

She pressed herself against Thaddeus and grabbed him again. He stiffened once more, but this time, simply glared as her fingers stroked and squeezed.

“When was the last time you knew happiness, true joy, peace … pleasure,” she said, looking down at her hand working at his groin. She smiled seductively. “Such a waste, a man with such a large … sword, discarded for what? If you would just join me, follow me, you would know peace and happiness again. We could be together. You would be wealthy. You would have a home. You would wander no more.”

She was beautiful, her features fair, her body perfect, but Thaddeus knew it was pretense. Amidst her charms, he knew that much … that this woman’s body was broken and worn, just like her soul.

“So many others have taken my offer,” the witch said.

She looked out into the crowd of people, surveying all those drinking and dancing. She smiled.

“Many have joined me, men you know,” she said, her eyes stopping at Jarvis, Alden, Gunnar, and Asaf, “but you would be the greatest. You would come before all the others. You would sit next to me when my master grants me what he has promised me.”

Thaddeus could see Jarvis and Alden, Asaf and Gunnar had started moving through the crowd of dancers, as gingerly as possible. They didn’t want to break their ruse by pushing people out of the way, but the looks on their faces showed they knew something was wrong.

What did the witch mean? Her words were poison, but had she turned the men Thaddeus knew? Had she turned Jarvis or Alden? Those even closer to him… his friends? No. He shook his head, but the thought lingered.

“And what have you been promised?” Thaddeus asked.

“Power,” she said. “Blood for power. Pain for power. Suffering for power.”

Another look of ecstasy crossed Renata’s face, but this one looked genuine, as she tilted her head back, breathed heavily, and moaned.

The witch released her grip on Thaddeus, looking down at him, then looking at his eyes.

“Such a waste, she said. “I must leave you. I have a schedule to keep. We will speak again. Tomorrow. I do hope you consider my offer.”

She stepped away from Thaddeus, that malicious smile still on her face. She looked to Adelaide and patted the old woman’s hand, still hooked around her arm, her skin paper thin and liver spotted.

“Come, my dear,” the witch said, but there was no consciousness or recognition in the old woman’s face as she mouthed the words Renata had spoken. It was a ruse like Thaddeus’ had tried, but he felt he had failed. She had beaten him ... this time.

As soon as the witch had left, Thaddeus felt his muscles release and almost fell to the floor, grabbing the arm of a nearby man to steady himself. The man glared at him.

“Sorry,” Thaddeus said. “Too much wine.”

The man just grunted and walked away as Alden, Jarvis, Asaf, and Gunnar finally reached Thaddeus.

“Are you all right?” Gunnar asked.

“Fine,” Thaddeus replied, wiping sweat from his forehead.

He inspected the four men, both of his friends, Gunnar with his blond beard and long, blond hair, some of it braided the way most of his northern kin kept their hair, his blue eyes that were kind and cruel at the same time, depending on who they were looking at, and then Asaf, his dark hair and tanned skin, greenish-brown eyes that spoke of a hard life consumed by more misery than joy. Would they betray him? Would they ally themselves with a witch, turn their backs on God? Certainly not, but how could he truly tell?

“Fine,” Thaddeus repeated. “We should go.”

“Are we going after her?” Gunnar asked.

“No. Not here. Let’s get back to the abbey. We’ll worry about her tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 18

WHEN THEY RETURNED to the abbey, Brant was gone.

“I told him to stay here,” Thaddeus growled.

“Did you actually think you could trust him?” Asaf asked.

“I don’t need your mouth right now,” Thaddeus hissed, glaring hard at his friend. “He was supposed to be protecting Rowan.”

“Who?” Gunnar asked.

“Rowan,” Thaddeus replied. “The man who sought asylum in the abbey.”

“Why would he be protecting a murderer?” Gunnar asked.

“Because the man served the witch,” Thaddeus replied.

“What?” Asaf asked.

“How was he able to enter the abbey?” Gunnar said.

“The man he killed was also a servant of the witch,” Thaddeus replied. “He was trying to flee. We were going to talk when we returned from the banquet.”

“Why have you waited until now to tell us this?” Asaf asked.

“I don’t know, damn it!” Thaddeus yelled as they walked up the night stairs to the dormitory. The person he was most angry with was himself ... for trusting Brant.

They reached the dormitory to find a growing group of monks gathered around one of the bed cots in the room. They were muttering, and some of them were crossing themselves.

“No,” Thaddeus whispered and ran to the crowd of monks pushing past them.

His upper half naked, Rowan lay on a cot, his eyes staring at the ceiling, and his ribs displaying his lack of proper nourishment. The once white sheet beneath him was mostly red, with blood pooled on the stone floor and a thin red line ran from one ear to the other. It would have taken moments for him to bleed out.

Thaddeus looked at the man’s hands and wrists; they were clean. Despite the death-smell of shit and piss, he had listened to Thaddeus and paid the monks to draw him a bath. Other than the slices at 90 degrees one another on his throat and shoulder, there were no signs of a struggle or trauma. This was the work of a most-efficient killer; with a very sharp knife.

“Now do you think it’s important,” Asaf said, standing behind Thaddeus.

Thaddeus turned and pushed past the former priest. Defrocked or not, now was not the time for confession.

“Where is Brant?” asked Thaddeus, more to himself than anyone.

†

WITH ONE HAND on the thane’s chest and an arm across his throat, Thaddeus drove Brant up against the wall of his cell. He breathed hard, and spittle flew from his mouth and onto the thane’s face as he seethed.

“I said, where were you?” Thaddeus said through clenched teeth.

Thaddeus had dragged the thane into the cell via his hair, and now Gunnar and Asaf just looked on, doing and saying nothing. They had tried, at first, to stop Thaddeus, but the look he gave them told them to stay back. Alden held Jarvis, the huscarl trying to come to his thane’s aid. He struggled, at first, but now just stood, letting the hearthguard hold his arms, and watched.

“I told you,” Brant replied, struggling to get his words out against his restricted throat. “I was at an alehouse.”

“I told you to stay here,” Thaddeus said, “and watch Rowan.”

“I got bored,” Brant retorted, still struggling to speak, but also anger flashed across his eyes. “I got tired of watching a murderer.”

“It’s most convenient,” Thaddeus said, “that you leave, and he is found dead.”

Brant stopped struggling, his eyes widened, and his mouth turned down. He leaned forward, clenching his teeth.

“What are you saying?” he asked.

“You know what I’m saying.”

“You think I killed him?” Brant exclaimed.

“Did you?” Asaf asked, finally chiming in.

“It would make sense,” Thaddeus said. “You hated him … for being a Norman. For being a criminal. For whatever you can hate a man for. Is that why you didn’t go to the banquet? So you could kill him? He could have helped us, you fool.”

“I didn’t kill him, you idiot,” Brant said, leaning his head back against the wall and rolling his eyes. “What do I care about him? I left almost as soon as you left. You can ask that groveling novitiate who helped us when we first got here. He saw me leave.”

“I don’t trust you,” Thaddeus said. “Gunnar, go ask the novitiate if he saw the thane here leave.”

“Well, I don’t trust you,” Brant replied, “so the feeling is mutual.”

Thaddeus finally let Brant go when Gunnar returned, only minutes later, confirming the thane’s alibi.

“This is so much deeper than we thought,” Thaddeus said. “What we are doing here … this is much more than simply removing the Normans from power, and you just don’t realize that, do you, Brant? You have no idea what is happening in this world … and you don’t care.”

“What are you talking about?” Brant asked, his expression changing from anger more to puzzlement, but he could still not hide his disdain.

A part of Thaddeus wanted to tell Brant about the witch. Maybe he would realize. Maybe he would change. But, as Thaddeus stared into the man’s eyes, he knew he would never change. Brant shouldered him as he walked past the Greek, cursing as he left.

“Aren’t you going to apologize to him?” Gunnar asked.

“He may not have slit his throat,” Thaddeus said, “but he might as well have been the one with the knife. He is the reason Rowan is dead tonight.”

“If he had stayed,” Gunnar said, “the man who killed Rowan might have killed him as well.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” Thaddeus asked, looking at the thane as he sat at the edge of Thaddeus’ cot and stared off into nothing and then at the Norseman.

“Those are hard words,” Gunnar said, “and not like you, Thaddeus.”

“Maybe I have changed,” Thaddeus replied.

“In a day?” Gunnar asked.

“Maybe we all have changed,” Thaddeus said, looking again at Gunnar.

“Relax, Thaddeus,” Asaf said, sitting on his own bed.

“If you don’t like the way I’m acting, why don’t you go sleep with them, in the common dormitory,” Thaddeus said.

“I think I will,” Asaf replied. And he stood and walked out of the room. Then he turned around. “Sometimes, you’re an ass.”

Thaddeus eyed his friends coldly as he closed the door to his cell.

†

THADDEUS COULDN’T SLEEP. Every time he closed his eyes, his mind was filled with one of two visions. The first showed him Gunnar and Asaf, lying on a bed, the witch in between them. They were all naked; the men caressing the witch and themselves. They were covered in blood. Body parts and entrails littered the ground around the bed. Imps danced about the bed as well, feeding on flesh and cackling, spitting fire. When the witch was finished with Gunnar and Asaf, she disemboweled them with her fingernails and threw them off the bed, but not before removing their hearts with her bare hands and eating them.

The second vision was just the witch … Renata. It was the same tall woman, long dark hair and reddish eyes. Her cheeks were soft, her nose a child-like button, and her lips red and plump. She was naked in this dream also, her breasts round and perfect, as were her hips. Her skin was a soft pale, a contrast to her dark, aroused nipples and her sex was completely shaven. Everything about her was perfect, and she called to him, touching herself and moaning. Thaddeus felt himself get aroused. She wanted him, and he wanted her. But it wasn’t just that she was perfect and beautiful and seductive, but she reminded Thaddeus of someone … a woman he once loved, so long ago.

How many years had passed since Thaddeus had seen Chloe? Too many. How many years had it been since he had even thought of her for more than a flashing moment? She was his love, his wife, his everything, but she had passed so long ago, gone to meet the Lord far before her time, leaving Thaddeus to the pain and agony of roaming the earth without the one woman he loved. No other woman could ever compare to his bride, and this witch was using her, the memory of her, to reach Thaddeus.

He sat up in his bed in the cell in the abbey and looked out of the small window. The sky suggested it was predawn, and the monks would be waking and getting ready to tend to their silent chores, reading the Gospel, and praying. Thaddeus dressed quickly and quietly, donning his normal traveling clothes. He had no desire to be recognized as some nobleman anymore. He just needed fresh air and a walk. Even though all the open doors suggested the monks were up and gone, he still stepped gingerly through the dormitory; his companions still slept. Through the stout oak door, he could still hear Asaf, snoring loudly as he often did. He didn’t want to wake them because he had no desire to be followed.

He soon found himself standing next to a wall, the stone old and worn and dilapidated. It was once a fortress, but now it simply served as a piece of the city of Winchester, a distant memory most of its citizens would never remember.

“You remember this wall, don’t you?” said a voice behind him.

Despite his expectance of her presence, she had still stolen up on him, and Renata’s voice startled Thaddeus; he knew she would find him. She stood several paces behind him, a black and purple cloak hanging from her shoulders and touching the ground, its hood pulled over her head, staving off the early morning cold. She ran her fingers along the old, worn stone of the wall. Thaddeus did the same.

“You remember it when it was strong,” she said, “when it was new and brilliant, so many years ago … centuries ago.”

“Yes,” he replied.

“What was it called,” Renata asked, “when it was first built?”

“Venta Belgarum,” Thaddeus replied. “It was one of the biggest cities in Britannia Superior.”

“It was once strong and powerful and prideful,” Renata said, “much like you.”

She stared at him, and Thaddeus returned the gaze.

“And now it is old and broken, a puppet for some other ruler,” she continued, “much like you.”

“I’m no puppet,” Thaddeus said, turning and walking away, but keeping his hand on the wall. It held so many memories.

“Are you not?” she asked. “Then leave. Go home. Take your own life. Do what you wish to do.”

Thaddeus didn’t answer her.

“You serve a loving God,” Renata said, managing to keep her voice even as she said His name, “but look what He has done to you. Would a God that loves His people put someone—a loyal follower such as yourself—through so much heartache and pain?”

“You have no idea what you’re saying,” Thaddeus said, barely turning his head to look at the witch over his shoulder, but her words stung him, and he felt a knot growing in his stomach.

“Your God is so merciful, and, yet, He let your Chloe die, didn’t He?” the witch said.

Thaddeus turned to face her, tears in his eyes.

“He let your parents die. Your sister … raped by the very people you served,” the witch continued. “What has your faith brought you but pain and ruin?”

“There is more to this world than just pleasure and getting what you want,” Thaddeus said.

“Is there?” the witch replied, as the response actually surprised her. “I don’t know. I rather like pleasure. I rather like getting what I want.”

She moaned and pushed her fingers firmly between her legs as she spoke, closing her eyes for a moment and running her lips across her teeth. They were too good for a normal woman; better than they had been the night before as she danced her act before the king.

“At what cost?” Thaddeus asked. “You’ll still only be nothing more than Lucifer’s whore when it is all over.”

She smiled, almost laughed even, as she opened her eyes and lifted her hand to push a stray lock of hair back into her hood.

“A warlock from the far east once suggested it was better to lead in hell than serve in heaven,” the witch said. “I wonder what he thinks now. It is what he said to me before I slit his throat, cut off his balls, and burned them to perform a spell.”

Thaddeus shook his head.

“The truth is, I don’t care,” Renata said. “But what of you? What has your pathetic faith brought you? What has your service brought? You so blindly serve your Lord, and for what? So that you can wander the world for centuries as his pawn? And when will it end? How long have you been serving?”

“It is of no concern to you.”

The answer was eight centuries, but before that, it was service to Rome. But he would not discuss that with her.

“So be it, but I know you were once a respected man, a legionary, a centurion,” Renata mocked. “You rose above what any Laconian should have ever achieved in Rome. You have the blood of the Spartans running through your veins, and now look at you, you pathetic specimen.”

Thaddeus stepped to the witch, quickly, almost an attack, and, for a moment, she looked surprised, scared even.

“What choice did I have?” he said with a hiss. “I’m a murderer, and I will kill you.”

“I doubt it, and we all are killers, in some way,” the witch said recovering her composure.

“This is my penance,” Thaddeus said, taking a step back. “This is my punishment for persecuting the Lord’s people. God gave me a choice, and this is what I chose. I chose better than you whore.”

“Paul persecuted the Christians,” Renata said, ignoring his jibe, “and what happened to him? Did God force him to wander the earth for centuries, doing every little menial task the Host of Hosts and Lord Most High asked of him?”

The witch spoke of God in a condescending tone, mocking his titles and spitting on the ground, just in front of Thaddeus’ feet, when she was done.

“You are a fool,” the witch said.

“Perhaps,” Thaddeus said, his eyes locked on hers.

“What would you give, Thaddeus,” the witch asked quietly, “to have your life back? What would you give to do it all over again? What would you give … to have your Chloe back?”

“Don’t even mention her name from that evil mouth of yours, she is of no concern to you.”

What would I give to have Chloe back? To be with her one more day? Anything.

Thaddeus stared at his hands, and when he looked again, it wasn’t the witch who stood before him. It was an olive-skinned woman with curly, brown hair that fell to her waist. Most wouldn’t call her a beauty, but they would say she was tough and resilient, and that was what Thaddeus found so appealing in the woman … Chloe … his wife.

She didn’t have the large breasts and round hips most men wanted. Nor did she have the soft, womanly features that spoke of a woman who would sit at home and birth out children and cook for her husband. God be good, they never had children, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.

For a brief moment, Thaddeus thought he could step forward and melt into her arms, but he knew this wasn’t Chloe. It was more witchery. Her charm might have worked on a normal man like Gunnar, and he was only a little over two hundred years old. But Thaddeus had seen dark magic much more powerful than anything this witch could wield.

He reached out, pretending to stroke the witch, still disguised as Chloe, on the cheek, but instead, he grabbed her by the throat and the image of his wife disappeared, with the witch struggling under his grip. He had taken her by surprise. Her eyes told him so. He squeezed harder, and she struggled, grasping at his wrist. He felt a tingle crawling up his arm and knew she was trying to cast a spell. Strangling her wouldn’t kill her, but she would need to take some time to recover, heal this body she wore, and regain her strength.

Renata whispered something, and Thaddeus felt the strength in his hands dissipate. His chest tightened, and he found it hard to breathe as he released the woman and stepped back. His hand went to the handle of his sword.

“That’ll do you little good,” the witch said, taking in a few deep breaths.

She was right. He would need to sprinkle holy water on the blade or have a priest bless it.

Just then, a bell rang out, from the castle of Winchester. Both Thaddeus and the witch looked to the tall, wooden keep. The witch laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Thaddeus asked with a sneer.

“Word will spread soon enough,” she replied, “but the King’s aunt is dead. She died peacefully in her sleep.”

“She was already dead, wasn’t she?” Thaddeus asked.

The witch just waved a hand, suggesting the matter was inconsequential.

“Your evil influence on this land will end soon enough,” Thaddeus said through clenched teeth.

“What do I have to influence?” the witch said with a laugh. “The Scots and the Normans slaughter each other. The Normans and the Saxons slaughter each other. The Scots and the Danes slaughter each other. The eastern church slaughters the western church and vice versa. The Christians slaughter the Muslims and the Jews, who slaughter each other. Robert of Normandy’s men and William of England’s men slaughter each other. You men need no influence to do great evil to one another. I am simply here to enjoy the show and reap the rewards of your own evil doing.”

Thaddeus just glared at Renata.

“So pitiful,” she said with a feigned pouting lip. “You think that by killing me, you will stop the death and hatred in this land? Do you not see what a fool’s errand your God has sent you on? What is your purpose? Your life is folly. You are a simple source of amusement for the One Most High. Surely, He sits on His throne of blessed followers looking down on you and laughing.”

With that, Renata let out a laugh, one that made her sound like a witch in children’s theater.

“You will realize it soon enough,” she said, “but then again, after almost nine hundred years, maybe not. Thankfully, some of your brethren have already figured out they are simple tools.”

Thaddeus had had enough. With practiced ease, he gripped his sword, drew it, and curved it towards her neck in one, smooth movement, but he was far from quick enough. In that instant, the air around the witch swirled like a whirlpool, sucking everything into her center. With a single flash of light, she was gone. The rain came down harder, and it was only a matter of moments before Thaddeus stood next to the ancient Roman wall, hair soaked and water running down his back.

“Hey, what are you doing?” someone yelled from behind Thaddeus as he put his sword away.

He turned to see two foot soldiers wearing their long, white tabards bearing the sigil of King William II. They both held spears and blue kite shields, and their cloth coifs hung slack, soaked from the rain as the water plinked off their conical helms.

“Nothing,” Thaddeus replied. “I thought I heard someone behind me. Damn rain.”

“You’ve got no business over here,” one of the soldiers said.

“Get out of here,” the other said.

“Straight away,” Thaddeus said with a quick bow before walking as quickly as he could back to the abbey.

†

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” Gunnar asked as Thaddeus walked past him and into his cell.

“Nowhere,” Thaddeus said, shivering as the rain still soaked his hair and ran down his back.

“You don’t look like you’ve been nowhere,” Asaf added.

“What do you care where I’ve been?” Thaddeus asked, and Asaf took a step back.

“What is wrong with you?” Asaf asked.

“That’s no way to speak to your friends,” Gunnar said.

“Friends,” Thaddeus said with a huff and, then, repeated, “friends. Where have you been?”

“What do you mean?” Gunnar asked. “We’ve been here.”

“Have you?” Thaddeus asked, staring at the two suspiciously. “And where are Brant and Jarvis?”

“I don’t know,” Asaf replied. “That rat turd was gone with his huscarl when we woke. We thought maybe he had gone with you.”

“Why would he go anywhere with me?” Thaddeus asked. “And Alden?”

“Helping the initiates with work around the abbey,” Asaf replied. “By the rood, what has gotten into you?”

“I bet he is,” Thaddeus muttered.

“Thaddeus, you should get out of those wet clothes,” Gunnar said.

“Do you ever wonder what we are doing?” Thaddeus asked, staring at the two men through squinted eyes.

“What?” Gunnar asked.

“Do you ever wish you had made a different choice?” Thaddeus added. “Do you ever wish you had turned down the Lord’s offer?”

“What choice was there?” Asaf asked. “We’re sinners who had turned our backs on God. The choice was made for us.”

“There is always a choice,” Thaddeus said, stepping back. “We could have said no. We could still say no. Maybe some of us have recently said no to God.”

With that, Thaddeus turned and left the cell. He didn’t know where he was going, but he couldn’t be there, around Asaf and Gunnar. Part of him wondered where Brant had gone, but then, he didn’t really care. The man was a wart, and if he never saw him again, it would be too soon.

“Thaddeus, what are you doing?” Gunnar called after him. He hurried his feet, but he could hear the north man yelling, “Where are you going?”

CHAPTER 19

T  HE SMELL IN The Silver Bell almost rivaled the stink of evil that accompanied the witch, and that was strong, signifying her power. The wooden planks of the floor, where there were some, were rotted and warped. Sheep and horses and pigs and chicken shared this space with the normal patrons of the alehouse, and their shit was everywhere. Thaddeus wasn’t opposed to eating horsemeat, in certain parts of Rome it was held as a delicacy, but in the horse porridge in front of him, the meat was old and tough. The ale was sour and flat, and the men that filled the mismatched chairs and benches were all drunk and loud and rowdy.

The bench on which Thaddeus sat wobbled with every movement and the table was a simple slab of wood, mostly unfinished with nobs where branches used to be. Two other men, joking lewdly and yelling, sat at the other end of the table, and every time they slammed a tankard against the wood, it shook and tilted. Thaddeus glared at them, but they were so drunk his glowering stares only made them laugh. The alehouse was so dark they probably couldn’t fully see him anyway. He went back to his porridge and continued his ruminations.

How could they? They wouldn’t, would they?

The witch’s words hung heavy in his mind. Someone close to him had joined her. He knew it. That is what she meant. But she was also a witch, deceitful and evil.

Nonetheless, his two encounters with her caused his mind to spin, and for the first time in several hundred years, the former centurion began to question his friendships and his allegiance to God. How many sacrifices had he made over the course of almost nine hundred years? How much death had he seen? What more did the Lord require of him? He was tired and worn. When he was a young man, he wanted to live forever. The very thought of death and what would happen after scared him. Now, it was all he desired.

“Lord, God,” Thaddeus prayed, “please, release me from this burden. I cannot take it anymore. I beg of you. Let me die. I don’t care where I go, just let me be done with this life.”

He put his face in his hands and almost wanted to cry.

“A man praying in an alehouse,” one drunk fellow said. He was dirty, his black beard speckled with gray and his shirt stained. He smelled awful, of sweat and ale and pig shit. “No one comes to an alehouse to pray.”

“Well, I do,” Thaddeus said, looking down at his tankard of sour ale.

“Take your praying to the abbey,” the drunk man said, poking his tankard of drink at Thaddeus, some of it spilling on the table.

“This is my church,” Thaddeus said, taking a drink of his sour ale.

“No one wants to hear praying in here,” the drunkard said.

“Why don’t you take yourself somewhere else,” Thaddeus said, “before you find yourself with two broken hands. What good would a drunk be with two broken hands?”

“Two broken …” the drunk said, looking at Thaddeus in disbelief. Drunks were always so courageous.

Just then, the door to The Silver Bell opened, casting light into the otherwise dark room. The people inside recoiled as if they were wraiths hurt by the brightness, and Thaddeus squinted, just enough to make out the two figures that walked into the room. He blinked when the door closed, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness once again. He looked up to see two figures standing before him, one small and slight and one much larger, but he still couldn’t make out their faces. The larger man grabbed the drunk who had been harassing Thaddeus, pulled him close, said something inaudible, and, as soon as he was released, the drunkard scurried away.

“My blessed Thaddeus,” the slighter man said in Greek, sitting on a bench across from Thaddeus.

Thaddeus recognized the voice.

“Your Excellence!” Thaddeus almost cried, banging his knee on the rickety table as he moved to stand.

“Sit down, Thaddeus,” the man said with a laugh. “This is not a place where you need to worry about proper pleasantries.”

“Bishop Wulfstan,” Thaddeus said in a hushed voice, sitting as he was told and leaning over the table, “what are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here.”

“Really,” Wulfstan replied with feigned amazement, “and why not? Would it surprise you if I told you I had been in an alehouse before? Am I any less of a bishop because I have?”

“Of course not,” Thaddeus said, sitting down again.

Wulfstan looked up at the large man standing behind him and nodded. The man moved to the front door and simply stood next to it, not blocking it, with his arms crossed in front of him. The brute of a man had a large, bushy beard, and he could have been Gunnar’s dark-haired brother with his barrel chest and broad shoulders. Thaddeus couldn’t see his eyes, but he imagined them as brooding and hard. Thaddeus wouldn’t want to cross the man.

“How did you know I was here?” Thaddeus asked.

“My son, I think you have had a little too much to drink,” Wulfstan said, patting Thaddeus on the hand, “I know you have been on this earth a lot longer than I have, but I have a way of finding things out. Your messenger reached me, in Chesterfield. A good lad.”

“Did you see Asaf or Gunnar? Did they tell you where I was?” Thaddeus asked, groaning as he spoke.

“No,” Wulfstan replied, his voice grandfatherly. “In fact, they don’t know I am here. Do they know you are here, in this alehouse, drinking sour ale? If they needed you, would they be able to find you?”

“No,” Thaddeus said, shaking his head.

“Friends as close as you, and they don’t know where you are?” Wulfstan said.

“Do you know what it is like,” Thaddeus asked, “to live beyond your time? Do you know what it is like to watch all those you love die away, only to love new people, and then to watch them die? Why won’t God just let me die?”

“Well … yes and no,” Wulfstan replied. “My time here on this earth is coming to an end, Thaddeus, and I am glad for it. I do not covet your blessing …”

“Blessing!” Thaddeus said with a quick snort. “More like a curse.”

“As I was saying, I do not covet your blessing,” Wulfstan said, squeezing Thaddeus’ hand not hard, but firmly, “but I do know what it is like to watch the ones you love pass away. And I do believe I also know what it is like to live well beyond your time here on this earth. Why are you here, Thaddeus?”

“I don’t know,” Thaddeus replied with a shrug. “I can’t trust my friends. I am angry with God for making me live this long. I miss the people that I have had to watch die.”

“My son,” Wulfstan said, “that is the witch talking. She is an agent of the enemy, and his main goal is to sow discord within the Lord’s flock. Do you truly think that Asaf and Gunnar would turn their backs on you and align themselves with a witch?”

“No, I suppose not,” Thaddeus said. “I’m a fool.”

“Yes. And so am I,” Wulfstan said. “You were given a choice, Thaddeus, so many years ago. Remember that it was you who cried out to God, yes? It was you who asked Him what He would have you do.”

“How do you know this?” Thaddeus asked.

“Was it not you, on your knees and your robe soaked with the blood of your wife, who cried out to our Lord and asked him for forgiveness … and then asked him to put you to task?” Wulfstan asked. “The crimes against men you had committed burdened you so much you couldn’t believe the Lord would ever forgive you, so He gave you a task, a purpose, yes?”

“Yes,” Thaddeus said, tears welling up in his eyes.

That day was always in the back of his mind, but he hadn’t thought about it in a long time. It was the day he found his wife dead. His parents. His sister. Murdered by the Romans who he had served. It was the rule of Valerian Augustus. Much of Thaddeus’ service was under the reign of Marcus Julius Phillipus, and he was sympathetic to Christians. In fact, despite the empire’s persecution of the Christians—something Thaddeus was a part of—it was during his reign that Thaddeus came to know Christ and brought his family to Him as well. But after he died in battle, each emperor after that became harsher and harsher on Christians. Until Valerian … It wasn’t fitting to have a Christian centurion, and when Thaddeus refused to sacrifice a bull to several Roman gods, his family suffered. His sister and wife were raped and killed, and his father and mother burned along with his little baby nephew. His brother-in-law was spared as he confessed that he hated Christ and would willingly worship the Roman gods. Thaddeus didn’t care how many times his sister’s husband apologized. When he was through with the man, his face was unrecognizable.

That was the day he cried out to God.

“Lord,” Thaddeus muttered, remembering the exact words he said, “this is because of my sin. This is my doing. I persecuted your people, and now my family has paid my sins’ penance. Help me to cleanse my heart. Make me a warrior for you, fervently seeking out all of the Devil’s servants in this world until they have all been sent back into the fiery furnaces of hell.”

It was then that an angel appeared to Thaddeus, gleaming like the sun in white robes. He and his family were living in Gaul at the time—near what was now Paris. It was raining that day, and when the angel appeared, the rain stopped, and the sun shone so brightly, Thaddeus shielded his eyes. He could never see the angel’s face, but he spoke with a voice that was like thunder.

“Is this truly what you want?” the angel asked. “Do you wish to be a holy warrior for the Lord on High?”

“Yes,” Thaddeus had replied.

“Then let it be so,” the angel said. “You will be a warrior for God Almighty. He will send you visions. He will send you messengers. He will give you dreams. And you will know where He commands you to go.”

And then the angel was gone.

“I should have said no that day,” Thaddeus said. “I should have just killed myself.”

“To what end?” Wulfstan asked.

“Would he have forgiven me?” Thaddeus asked, his eyes filled with tears as he remembered that day and his beloved Chloe, defiled and covered in blood. “Would he have taken me to heaven, right then and there?”

“He would have forgiven you? Yes,” Wulfstan replied. “Would He have taken you to heaven? No. Not yet, at least. Before you begin to question this task you have been given, this life you live, think of all the people—and not just good Christian people, but people overall—you have saved, helped, and rescued from ruin.”

Thaddeus just shook his head.

“Do you remember the Persian girl, sold into prostitution by her father?” Wulfstan asked. “Did you know that she eventually married and had a family of her own, that she became a believer? Or the Ethiopian man, possessed by an evil spirit? His own family was ready to burn him alive, but you rescued him. He was able to see his grandsons grow into men … Because of you. Or what about that little Briton you rescued from a pack of shape-shifting wolves? He grew to be a good chieftain. You saved those people, Thaddeus, and more. You are doing the Lord’s work, and what you see as a curse, most around you see as a blessing. The witch is causing you to wallow in self-pity.”

“How do you know about all those people?” Thaddeus asked.

“Do you forget that the Lord is known as El Roi—the God who sees?” Wulfstan asked. “And He has allowed me to see some of these things.”

“I am so tired,” Thaddeus said. “I ache. Even if my body doesn’t age, I feel its pain.”

“Do you also forget the other names of our Lord God?” Wulfstan asked. “Yahweh Yireh—the God will Provide, for when you are worn and weary. Jehovah Rapha—the Lord who Heals, and not just physical wounds. Yahweh Shalom—the Lord is Peace, especially in times like this when our mind is chaos. And most importantly, Thaddeus, Abba—Father. You have been given a mighty task by God, and I could see how, at times, you wish this was not God’s plan for you, but as you grow weary, He is here to comfort you.”

“It is too much, father,” Thaddeus said, still looking down and holding back his tears of sadness and frustration.

“Our Lord says, cast your burdens on the Lord, and He shall sustain you,” Wulfstan explained. “He also said, come to me, all you who are heavy laden and burdened, and I will give you rest. In your frustration, have you come to deny the word of God?”

“No, of course not,” Thaddeus said.

“Then why let a servant of the Devil influence you so?” Wulfstan asked. “Why let one of the Devil’s whores cast doubts in your head? Believe, my son. And believe that the men who serve the Lord by your side are here to help you and support you. You were the first, after all, of the Lord’s warriors.”

Thaddeus looked to Wulfstan.

“Am I correct? You chose the others? You chose Gunnar and Asaf?”

“Yes,” Thaddeus replied.

“Then trust in your decision and the Lord’s guidance,” Wulfstan said. “Now, keep a close eye on others in your company. They may not be so easily trusted. Let us leave this place and get you back on track. Yes?”

“Yes,” Thaddeus said with a smile.

He stood and followed Wulfstan to the door, where the large bodyguard nodded and led them into the streets of Winchester. Thaddeus, in a way, felt refreshed, even though the words of the witch, the vision of his wife Chloe, still hung in his head. But he figured they always would. He was but a man, regardless of how much trust Wulfstan, or Asaf, or Gunnar, or Harold put in him. He was still a man, even if he was a holy warrior, and doubt and sin still plagued him as with any man.

As Wulfstan accompanied Thaddeus to the abbey, just outside of its grounds, they saw two people speaking, one with their back to them and the other with a cloak pulled over their face. But the way the one facing them moved, and the dark ringlets escaping the hidden confines of the cowl, Thaddeus knew who it was.

“The witch,” he seethed.

His voice was a whisper, but the way she looked up, her glimmering reddish eyes meeting his, he knew she had heard him. She said something to the person she was talking to—presumably a man with the way the broad shoulders sat under their own cloak—and they ran away, never looking back.

“So, the pitiful warrior returns,” the witch said in a chiding voice, “and this time with a holy man past his prime. Wulfstan, why can’t you just die?”

“Soon enough, witch,” the Bishop replied.

Thaddeus wondered, for a moment, if they knew each other, but then again, Wulfstan was an archbishop and an important one. The minions of the Devil surely knew who he was. Undoubtedly, Wulfstan felt the witch’s presence the moment she stepped foot on England’s shores, and she felt his.

Renata snapped her fingers, and the world around them seemed to stop. People walking in the streets stood still. Small drops of rain, mist almost, froze in space. Even a man tossing his little girl into the air stopped, him still reaching up to catch her and she suspended just above his reach, a look of delighted fear and excitement tattooed on her face. The only ones that had not been frozen, besides the witch, were Thaddeus, Wulfstan, and the Bishop’s bodyguard.

With another snap of her fingers, mist rose from the ground, slowly swirling about in little tornados until they loosely took the shape of men, although translucent, their shape constantly changing as they moved, swaying like smoke. The witch said something in a language that Thaddeus had heard before but never bothered to learn—the infernal tongue, the language of evil, and the underworld. The wraiths, ten in all, screamed, their mouths opening wider than what seemed natural, their screech piercing Thaddeus’ ears, and they rushed the holy warrior and the Bishop and the bodyguard.

Thaddeus drew his sword, a weapon almost as old as him, made by eastern swordsmiths. As he drew it, Wulfstan placed a hand on the blade and said a prayer. The steel glowed a subtle blue, and when Thaddeus struck the first wraith to reach them, it howled as the mist that made up the evil creature dissipated away into nothing.

The Bishop’s bodyguard drew his sword, a two-handed weapon with a single-edged blade that curved slightly. It glowed blue as well, and when he struck another wraith, the same thing happened. The other eight ghosts became wise to the warriors’ weapons. One disappeared just as it reached Thaddeus, only to reappear behind him. A wind, more forceful than any wind Thaddeus had ever felt, punched him in the back, sending him forward into the misty body of another specter. As the apparition’s misty body surrounded Thaddeus, he felt his skin burn. He lifted his sword, and the spirit that surrounded him disappeared with a scream. The one that had punched him met its demise at the bodyguard’s blade.

Thaddeus turned to face the witch. A misted hand reached out and scratched his cheek. He felt blood trickle from four, shallow scrapes along his cheek. They could hurt them. They could kill them. Thaddeus had dealt with numerous ghosts in the last eight hundred years, and most of them were simply tortured souls that had made some stupid deal with the Devil or had been cursed by the likes of this witch. These wraiths were different. They were warriors from the underworld, albeit simple foot soldiers of hell. But nonetheless, they were anything but tortured souls. They were once men who had served the Devil in life and now served him in death. And as such, they could draw blood.

Two of the ghosts flew towards Wulfstan, but the aged priest simply folded his arms, closed his eyes, and bowed his head as he said a quick prayer, not an ounce of worry on his face. As they were about to reach out to him with their wraith-like hands—the Bishop’s bodyguard too far away to reach them—the holy man lifted his head, opened his eyes, smiled, and raised his hands. A flash of brilliant, white light exploded from his palms, and the two specters glowed yellow before the mist they once were turned to ice and then fell to the ground, melted puddles of water. Two others in front of Thaddeus found the same fate, making the last wraith an easy target, as Thaddeus sliced his sword through what would have been its head. With a howl filled with anger and pain and hatred, the ghost disappeared, leaving only the witch again.

“Still the fool,” the witch said.

She lifted her hands, shouted something in the infernal language, and her eyes flashed red. A sudden pain seared through Thaddeus’ head, and he dropped to his knees. The bodyguard rushed to his side, but she shouted something else, and he stopped mid-stride, frozen save for his eyes, which darted about frantically. She looked to Wulfstan and, again, cast a spell. The Bishop simply laughed.

“I am too old to care about your beauty,” Wulfstan said, “and I have surrounded myself with the Word of our Lord. A thousand angels are protecting us right now, witch.”

“You think you are so clever, Wulfstan,” the witch said, her voice changing from the soft, female voice she once spoke with to one that was hard, raspy, and demonic. She pointed to Thaddeus. “But your God’s warriors are weak, and death consumes this land. It is our time. As you fade away, we grow strong.”

Wulfstan simply laughed again and, as he lifted his hands, the clouds parted, and golden rays of sun spilled over the earth. A chorus of a thousand trumpets broke through the heavens like the booming crack of thunder. The ground shook, and the witch screamed, covering her ears with her hands. Blood trickled from her ears and her nose and her mouth and, as Thaddeus looked up, the air around her swirled inward towards her, and in a flash of red, she was gone.

As soon as she disappeared, the world around Thaddeus began moving again. The rain fell again. Sound returned. The father caught his daughter, and she giggled in his arms. The pain in Thaddeus’ head was gone, the burning of his skin, even the scratches on his cheek. He stood and faced Wulfstan, the old man reaching up and patting the giant of a bodyguard on the shoulder. The man was visibly upset, and Wulfstan continued to give him encouraging and soothing words.

“She is a powerful one,” Wulfstan said. “I’ll give her that. I underestimated her.”

“It has been a long time since I have faced such a powerful witch,” Thaddeus agreed. “Not since I traveled to the godless east, or the forests of Germania before they came to know Christ.”

“She must be stopped, Thaddeus,” Wulfstan said. “Despite your doubts. Her stink is ever present on this land, and her influence will continue to be the ruin of these people, Saxon and Norman alike.”

“I promise, I will stop her,” Thaddeus said and hoped that would be true.

“Good,” Wulfstan replied. “She will return to Richmond. As chaotic as witch’s seem, I have always known them to be creatures of habit. She will return to Richmond to recuperate and gain strength.”

“She mentioned the Scots and King Malcolm,” Thaddeus said.

“Yes, Richmond it is then,” Wulfstan said. “Anywhere where there are death and war … that is her domain. You must leave as soon as you can. Follow her. Release her grip on Count Stephen and the people of England.”

“As you wish,” Thaddeus said.

“No,” the Bishop replied, “as the Lord wishes.”

CHAPTER 20

BISHOP WULFSTAN ACCOMPANIED Thaddeus, Gunnar, and Asaf to see Abbot Robert Losinga. As they entered his rooms, the elderly Abbot stood as quickly as he could, bowing low.

“Your Excellency,” the Abbot said. “An honor to have you here. I wish I knew you were coming.”

Wulfstan just waved the man off.

“May I have a seat?” the Bishop asked.

“Of course,” the Abbot said and gave an attending initiate a hard look. The young monk in training pulled a chair away from the Abbot’s desk, bidding the Bishop sit.

“The Lord has been good to you in Winchester,” the Bishop said flatly, looking about the room.

“Yes, He has,” the Abbot said with a smile.

“More like your family’s money has been good to William Rufus,” the Bishop said, “and so William Rufus has been good to you.”

That seemed to take the Abbot aback and left him speechless for a moment. The Bishop simply waited.

“To what do I owe your visit, Your Excellency?” Abbot Robert asked. “And why is Lord Malmesbury accompanying you?”

“I am here on the Lord’s business, of course. And I am not only a bishop in the Lord’s court but also a bishop in the court of our King William,” the Bishop replied.

“Of course,” the Abbot said.

“But I also thought it would be prudent to let you know that Lord Malmesbury is really a man named Thaddeus and that these are his companions, Asaf and Gunnar … and that he is here on my request.”

“You lied to me,” the Abbot said, glaring at Thaddeus, who stood behind the Bishop, “and in the Lord’s house.”

“It is no concern of yours Abbot,” the Bishop said with a simple wave of his hand. “If you truly knew who these men were, you would be referring to them with the same titles you bestow upon me. They are here because of me. And with all the little trinkets of worth you have accumulated and put on display in your rooms, one might wonder whether or not this is a house of the Lord.”

This time the Abbot was speechless.

“In addition,” the Bishop said, “I understand there was a murder in your abbey, yes?”

“Yes, Your Excellency, but …”

Wulfstan put up a hand.

“And this man had claimed asylum, yes?” Wulfstan added.

“Yes,” the Abbot replied. “We are looking into it.”

“This is rather concerning, don’t you think?” Wulfstan asked.

“Like I said,” the Abbot said, “we are investigating it right now. It is curious that this man showed up at the same time as this ... pretender.”

“They are not connected,” Wulfstan said, “at least, not in the way you think they are. Do not waste resources on researching this death. Justice will prevail. Of this, I can assure you.”

Wulfstan seemed bored talking to the Abbot.

“But if word spreads that men are not safe at Hyde Abbey ...” Robert Losinga said.

“Don’t worry,” the Bishop replied, “word will not spread. I have an idea of who the murderer is.”

“Who?” the Abbot asked, but the Bishop, once again, waved him off.

“Thaddeus will be leaving within a day,” Wulfstan said. “You are to give him whatever supplies he needs to journey to Richmond. Is this understood?”

“Of course, Your Excellency,” the Abbot replied.

“What have you heard of Normandy?” the Bishop asked.

“Well,” the Abbot replied, “the peace treaty between Duke Robert and King William is dissolving. I do not know why; Robert was here in England two years ago. Some say it is because of his alliance with the King that the Norman people are not too fond of him. Others say it is because of the unrest happening in the east—in Byzantium and the Holy Land.”

“The witch,” the Bishop muttered, looking over his shoulder at Thaddeus.

“I am sorry, Your Excellency,” the Abbot said, leaning forward and cocking an eyebrow, “but did you say, witch?”

“Mind your business,” Wulfstan snapped, “which happens not to be my quiet conversations with my friend here.”

“Yes, Your Excellency,” the Abbot said, lowering his eyes.

“I will be sending some men,” Wulfstan explained, “soldiers of the church, to Winchester. You are to care for them, give them whatever they need. And take care of Thaddeus until he leaves. Is this understood?”

“Of course,” the Abbot said, standing as the others left without another word.

“I am truly glad my time on this earth is quickly coming to an end,” Wulfstan said as they walked back to the cell in which Thaddeus and his companions stayed.

“The witch’s presence seems to be far-reaching,” Thaddeus said.

“Indeed,” Wulfstan replied. “I am sure agents tied to her have a hand in peace breaking down between Robert and William, as well as between William and Malcolm the Scot. The Devil’s hand is usually present in the dissolution of peace.”

“This is the second time I have heard of strife in the Holy Land,” Thaddeus said.

“When is there not strife in the Holy Land?” Wulfstan asked, followed by a short, mirthless laugh. “The Pope would have us convinced that it is simply an extension of the fight between Christendom and Islam. We are saving good, Christian men from the hands of Turks and Muslims in the east, while the Iberians engage in the same fight, calling it the Reconquista. The Lord has surely sent you to Gaul several times as Christians and Muslims killed one another there.”

“That is so,” Thaddeus said. “It is where I met Gunnar, washed up on shore after seventy of his Norseman ships were captured and burned by the Galicians.”

“What would you say is the cause of this latest strife in my homeland?” Asaf asked.

“As the Church blames the Muslims, the Byzantines blame the west and the Catholic Church,” replied Wulfstan. “The Fatimads blame the aggressiveness of the Turks. The Turks blame the leniency of the Fatimads. And the Jews blame everyone. Who is to know, truly? I am sure the Devil’s hand is in the midst of all the bloodshed. It didn’t seem to me that the west much cared for the east, as long as pilgrims could make their way rather unharassed to Jerusalem. The Schism seemed to solidify that. But then, when Turkish hordes crushed the Byzantines at Manzikert, well …”

“It has been a long time since I … we have been to the Holy Land,” Thaddeus said.

“I would be ready,” Wulfstan said. “I am certain the Lord will call you there soon.”

“Should we go there instead?” Asaf asked as they reached their cell.

“No,” Wulfstan replied. “Stay the course. I can understand your desire to see if you can alleviate some the problems in your homeland, Asaf, but you will know when and where the Lord calls you.”

“But maybe you are how the Lord is calling us to the Holy Land,” Asaf countered, again showing his concern about what was happening in Palestine.

“The people of England, both Saxon and Norman, need you,” Wulfstan explained. “I do not believe I am the vessel by which God is going to call you east. Truly, He may never call you there. It is just an assumption.”

Thaddeus was about to say something when Alden appeared in the cloister. When he saw Wulfstan, he bowed quickly and stayed there, face to the ground, until the Bishop bid him stand. As Alden walked past Thaddeus on his way into the cell, the Greek sniffed the air around the young Saxon. He simply smelled dirty. His hands were covered in dirt, and he assumed the man had been working in the gardens with the initiates and monks of the abbey.

“I must leave for the castle,” Wulfstan said “and tomorrow you must be on the road to Richmond. I think we can be sure the witch is already there, and her stain is ever growing. Thaddeus, a word please.”

The Bishop stepped away from the other men, Thaddeus following him.

“Be careful, Thaddeus,” Wulfstan said, his voice hushed. “Watch the Saxons that are with you.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“And hurry to Richmond,” Wulfstan added. “This witch is highly dangerous, perhaps one of the most powerful I have ever come across ... or we have come across. She poisons this land that I love, Thaddeus, and I would see it restored before I leave this world. The longer she stays, the more violence and war will break out. In the north. In Normandy. I already know that I must attempt to undo what she has done to the King. God be with you, Thaddeus. Know that I will pray for you daily.”

CHAPTER 21

“WE SHOULD GO TO the Holy Land,” Asaf argued. “It is the Lord’s land, the place where Christ was crucified. It is where the Lord wants us. I know it.”

“It is where you want to go,” Thaddeus said. “You want to return home so badly you would use this to that end. Don’t you remember what Bishop Wulfstan said?”

“I don’t know,” Gunnar added. “It seemed to me, as the Bishop spoke, that the Lord was using him to direct us. This witch is a wild goose chase. We go to one place, and she leaves. We go another, and she leaves. If England falls, so what? It has fallen before, many times. To the Saxons. To my people. To the Normans. But if the Holy Land falls, then what?”

“The Holy Land has already fallen, Gunnar,” Thaddeus said. “Christians do not control Jerusalem. Muslims do.”

“All the more reason to go,” Asaf said.

“You think God has tasked us to overthrow a whole caliphate?” Thaddeus asked.

“And why not?” Asaf replied. “Maybe it is our last task. Perhaps it is the last deed God wishes us to do before he lets us die.”

That thought had crossed Thaddeus’ mind as well, and it was a good thought … for a moment.

“I thought you were afraid to die, priest,” Gunnar said. “Aren’t you afraid God won’t let you through the gates of Heaven?”

“Right now, I am so tired I could care less,” Asaf said. “If He lets me into Heaven, great. If not, then I’ll find every witch and demon and evil spirit I’ve sent back to hell and piss in their faces.”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing the Holy Land,” Gunnar said. “I’ve been close, but never to Jerusalem.”

“Listen both of you,” Thaddeus said. “If we believe what Wulfstan said, then we will go soon, but not yet.”

“We’ll be some whore’s puppet before this is over,” Asaf cursed.

“We stay the course,” Thaddeus said. “I know that most of the time we are equal, but in times like this, you have always looked to me for my leadership. I was the first of us to be anointed holy warrior, and so I will make the final decision. We follow this witch to Richmond, where we kill her and release her grip on this land.”

“What are we doing?” Brant asked, stepping into the cell where the three men had been conferring.

“We were just figuring that out,” Thaddeus replied.

“What is there to figure out?” Brant asked.

“It is over your head,” Asaf said.

“That is a lofty statement for such a slight man,” Brant said with an antagonizing smile.

Asaf was a smaller man, but he was ruthless and deadly. Part of Thaddeus wanted to let Brant continue to provoke the man, but it wouldn’t serve their purpose.

“We are going back to Richmond,” Thaddeus said.

“What?” Brant asked. “Why?”

“Because, that is the course we must take,” Thaddeus replied.

“Not good enough,” Brant said. “I’ve been following you all around England with naught a single thread of explanation, and now we are supposed to go back to Richmond. Are we stopping in Chesterfield? Are we letting Prince Harold know what we are doing?”

“No,” Thaddeus said.

He could see the thane’s face turning red and his chest puff up. Thaddeus looked to Asaf and Gunnar with questioning eyes. They both nodded.

“This isn’t about overthrowing the Normans,” Thaddeus said, “nor is it about placing the Godwinsons back on the throne. We actually couldn’t care who ruled this land, nor does Bishop Wulfstan, nor Rome, nor Byzantium.”

“What do you mean?” Brant asked. “What have we been doing here?”

He clenched his fists as Thaddeus gave his companions another cautious look.

“We’re hunting a witch,” Thaddeus replied.

Brant looked as if he was about to hit Thaddeus for a moment. He looked livid, his jaws rigid, and the muscles in his arms flexing. And then he laughed.

“You must truly take me for a fool,” he said, pointing his index finger at Thaddeus.

“It’s no jest,” Thaddeus said, “no lie.”

Brant stopped laughing as Thaddeus looked at him with a straight face.

“You expect me to believe we are hunting a witch?” Brant asked. “What is Prince Harold then? Some ruse?”

“Yes,” Asaf replied.

“Witches aren’t real,” Brant hissed, the mirth in his voice and on his face gone. “They are just spoke of in stories to frighten children.”

“You’re the fool if you can’t look around you and know that evil is at work in this land,” Asaf said. “You must feel it. The Devil is present here.”

“Fairy tales,” Brant said with a wave of his hand. “We are wasting time on this rubbish.”

“Rowan was a servant of the witch,” Thaddeus said. “That is why he fled here, because she can’t enter this holy place. And that is why I wanted him alive.”

Brant looked at Thaddeus for a moment before rubbing his face and shaking his head.

“What about the evil in the lands around Richmond?” Thaddeus asked. “The House of Renne was a just house, and then, suddenly, they turn evil.”

“They’re Norman,” Brant replied.

“Or the unwillingness of this land to produce any fruits,” Thaddeus added. “It’s late spring, and yet, almost nothing grows.”

“And you can’t tell me you haven’t seen strange things,” Gunnar added. “Especially around cemeteries. Deep in the forests. On old battlefields.”

Brant’s eyes widened, but then he shook his head.

“I need proof,” Brant said.

“Figures,” Asaf replied. “I knew you would be a doubting Thomas.”

Thaddeus unsheathed his sword. It still glowed with a blue light. Everyone’s eyes widened, not just Brant’s.

“Black magic,” the thane muttered.

“I’ve never seen it do that,” Gunnar said at the same time.

“A blessing from Bishop Wulfstan,” Thaddeus said.

“The bishop was here?” Brant asked.

“Aye,” Thaddeus replied, “because of the witch.”

“A glowing sword isn’t much proof that a witch has poisoned England,” Brant said.

“Not just England,” Thaddeus replied, “but its people … its king even.”

“We will see,” Brant said. “When are we leaving?”

“Tomorrow. Today we gather our supplies for the journey,” Thaddeus replied.

CHAPTER 22

T  HADDEUS PATTED POLEMISTES on his great neck as they rode through the countryside outside the capital of Winchester. The day was brighter than the previous. The clouds had broken a little to allow for some sunshine, and the rain had stopped. In the light, this land looked beautiful, as did its people. Whether they were Norman or Saxon, they were pleasing in the eyes of the Lord. They were good, Christian men and women, working hard and raising families as best they could, and they deserved to do so without the interference of the Devil and his whore. They had enough to contend with already without the ever-shifting politics and fighting over the borders of this world.

Thaddeus looked behind him, a small smile on his face, to see his companions following. Then he frowned.

“Where did Brant go?” Thaddeus asked. “And Jarvis?”

“I don’t know,” Gunnar replied.

Thaddeus looked to Alden.

“I don’t know,” Alden replied with a shrug. “He won’t talk to me. He won’t even look at me.”

Just then, the faintest smell of rot hit Thaddeus’ nose. It was ever so slight, like the smell of an apple that just began to turn, or the feeble smell of decay on an animal that has sat unsalted too long. He saw several men, hoeing the land alongside the road, and wondered what were they digging at when they threw down their tools and reached inside their tunics.

“Get ready for a fight!” Thaddeus yelled.

He heard a high-pitched screech and watched as a cloaked figure appeared from behind a large oak tree, several paces off the road. Two large men, rather, headless men followed the cloaked figure. Perched upon the figure’s shoulder was a little winged creature with two curled horns sprouting from its forehead, clawed feet, a pinched face, a long nose, pointed ears, and a tuft of beard growing from its chin. It couldn’t have been more than two feet tall, where the headless men were more than eight feet tall.

“Imp,” Asaf muttered. “Disgusting little demons.”

“What are those?” Alden asked, and when Thaddeus looked at the Saxon man over his shoulder, he was crossing himself, his eyes wide with astonishment.

“Blemmyae,” Thaddeus replied. “We haven’t seen them in quite some time.”

“Not since Nubia,” Gunnar said.

The giant, headless men were naked despite the colder weather. Their arms and legs were long but well-muscled. Two large eyes sat on their chest in place of nipples, and a large mouth sat where their navels should have been. On either side of the road, a dozen or more men gathered crude implements—anything from their hoes to rusted short swords—wielded as weapons.

The cloaked figure removed their hood, revealing a young, pretty woman with long, blonde hair. She lifted her hands and head, spoke something, and flies began to buzz around Thaddeus and his companions. They were an annoyance, but that was it.

“She’s an apprentice,” Asaf said, “sent to simply slow us down.”

“Aye,” Gunnar said, and as the men on either side of them engaged, he threw his spear at one.

The blade of the Norseman’s spear punched through the man’s chest, sending him back into another man, the blade jamming into his chest as well. Thaddeus easily beheaded one attacker, and his horse kicked out at another, turning his face into a mess of flesh and bone.

“They are fools to attack us while we are horsed,” Gunnar yelled, his blade cleaving through flesh easily.

“They are possessed,” Asaf said, striking another man in the head with his war hammer. “Look at them. We are doing them a favor as we strike them down.”

Indeed, the witch controlled these men. Their faces looked gaunt and worn, and their eyes sunken. They moved with the fervor of a man who had been tortured, a man whose only hope that was perhaps, with a victory, his torture would end. Whether victory meant his death or the death of his opponent, it didn’t matter; his torture would end, nonetheless.

All four of them easily struck down the possessed peasants, who had simply clawed and scratched at them as they sat over them on their horses. Their presence and purpose were merely to distract them as the apprentice witch, and her minions orchestrated their attack.

The imp spit at Thaddeus. He wasn’t ready for the attack and, even though he was able to dodge the fiery spittle that flew at his face, it distracted him just as Polemistes was rearing to attack, and he fell from his horse with blisters rising along his cheek. The Blemmyae rushed Asaf and Gunnar. Asaf was able to turn his horse away, but Gunnar flew from his horse as the witch’s soldier rammed a shoulder into the Norseman’s horse’s ribs. The animal crashed to the ground and probably would have died by the monster’s hands if Alden hadn’t rushed in, sword swinging over his head. Before the Saxon could swing, however, the Blemmyae backhanded the man across the face, also taking him out of his saddle.

It was all the time Gunnar needed to catch his breath from the fall and retrieve his spear. He jabbed at the naked Blemmyae, striking one of its giant eyes. Blood burst from the wound and the creature stumbled backward, a gurgling scream erupting from its mouth. Thaddeus too was back on his feet, and he rushed the injured monster while Asaf engaged the other. He could see his sword still glowing with that faint blue light—the blessing of Wulfstan—and that gave him a surge of courage as he slid the blade along the Blemmyae’s ribs. The creature howled again. Alden jabbed his sword into the back of the monster’s leg while Gunnar ran his spear through the creature’s spine, the blade punching through its mouth on the other side. Thaddeus stabbed it in the other eye and, in moments, the monster lay on the ground, dead.

A hiss signified more imp spittle. This one was aimed at Alden, and when it struck the sleeve of his tunic, the wool easily caught fire, even in the damp conditions. The man swung his arm about frantically, crying as the imp fluttered overhead and laughed. Gunnar tackled him to the ground, patting out the flames. At the same time, a thorny vine rose up from the ground and wrapped around Thaddeus’ ankle. His boots held back the long, sharp thorns, but the vine held him in place, and he could see the witch smiling at him from several paces away.

Asaf swung his hammer at the other Blemmyae, the steel head smacking into the monster’s shoulder. It swung wildly at the priest, but the nimbleness of his horse easily dodged the creature’s attacks. As soon as Gunnar had extinguished Alden’s burning sleeve, he rushed to Asaf’s aid, throwing his spear at the Blemmyae’s back and then drawing his long sword.

While Thaddeus struggled with the thorny vine snaring his ankle, any attempt to detangle himself drawing blood from his fingers and hands, he heard the imp spit again. This fiery attack hit his shoulder and, even though the spittle bounced off the iron plate protecting it, he could feel the heat from the little demon’s attack.

“Alden!” Thaddeus cried. “Get that imp!”

The Saxon looked at Thaddeus with confusion at first, the little demon hovering at least a dozen feet above them, but then he looked at his feet and saw a large rock. He picked it up and threw it at the imp. The rock missed, but the diminutive creature ceased its attack on Thaddeus to focus on Alden. He threw another rock at the monster, this one grazing the imp’s left leg. It screeched and hissed, steam spilling from its long, hooked nose, and flew back to the shoulder of the witch.

More vines sprouted from the ground like writhing snakes, searching for flesh to latch on to. Alden dodged several of them, as he ran to Thaddeus’ aid. Two vines snaked around Gunnar’s legs, just as he was getting ready to bring his sword down on the Blemmyae’s shoulder, and as the thorns dug into his skin, he cried out. Thorny creepers even crept up the legs of Asaf’s horse, and the poor animal neighed and whinnied as blood poured from its wounds.

Asaf huffed angrily, threw his hammer at the Blemmyae, gripped the cross that hung from his neck tightly, and prayed. When he had finished with a loud “Amen!” a flash of white light burst from his cross and the witch covered her eyes with her hands. The Blemmyae stumbled back, falling to the ground and the imp screeched loudly. The vines loosed their grip and fell to the ground, harmlessly. Gunnar ran to the headless man, lying on his back, and stabbed it in both its eyes. It gurgled and howled, opening its mouth and Gunnar jammed his blade between the rows of blackened, crooked teeth. For a moment, its arms and legs flailed, and then it fell still.

The imp spat at Gunnar, but missed, striking the dead Blemmyae. The monster’s skin caught fire where the spittle struck, and in moments, fire consumed the headless man. At the same time, the witch started chanting another spell, and as she spoke, large hairy spiders burst from the earth and crawled towards the four men. The imp cast a spell of its own, and wasps twice the size of a normal winged insect filled the sky, diving at Thaddeus and his companions, stinging them mercilessly.

“Kill the imp!” Thaddeus cried. “It is giving the witch power!”

Gunnar rushed the witch, but the imp turned to him and blew at him, and a cloud of dust rose up from the ground and surrounded the large man. Asaf ran at her as well, but when the witch snapped her fingers, the ground underneath him rolled, throwing him to the ground. Spiders crawled all over him, and he jumped to his feet, slapping them away, all the while wasps stinging at his exposed flesh.

Thaddeus reached down, grabbed a large rock, and tossed it to Alden. Alden caught the rock and in the same motion threw it at the imp. If this Saxon were like any other, he would have learned how to defend himself with whatever he had available, including rocks and slings. The rock hit the tiny demon, and it fell from the witch’s shoulder, and as she stepped back, surprised by the attack, she stepped on the demon’s wing. Thaddeus heard a crunching sound, and when the imp got to its feet, one of its wings hung limply. It howled and looked up at the witch, hissing and squinting its eyes.

Gunnar, the cloud of dust gone, rushed the witch from one side while Asaf rushed her from the other. The imp spat at the Norseman but wasn’t ready for the priest’s boot that caught it in the stomach. It flew through the air with a squeaky grunt, landing just in front of Thaddeus, who promptly lifted his boot and brought it down hard on the demon’s head before it could spit or even yell out a curse. Just to make sure the little demon was dead, he brought his sword down on it, cleaving the creature in two.

Seeing the last of her infernal help dead, the witch turned to flee. Thaddeus heaved his sword at the woman, blade and handle flying end over end, and it struck the woman in the shoulder before she could cover only a few paces. As the blade pierced her flesh, it threw her forward as she emitted a howl.

“Cover her mouth when I turn her over,” Thaddeus said to Gunnar, retrieving his sword and grabbing the witch by the shoulder that had suffered the wound.

As she rolled to her back, she stabbed upwards with a thin-bladed knife. Thaddeus dodged it, kicked the knife from her hand, and then put a boot onto where the sword had gone right through her shoulder, pressing down hard. She screamed and began to form words, but Gunnar promptly clamped a foot over her mouth, balling a bit of cloth in his hands. As soon as it was compact enough, he uncovered her mouth only to gag her with the cloth.

“Are you a full-fledged witch?” Thaddeus asked, pressing even harder on her wounded shoulder. “Or are you simply an apprentice, some whore for Renata’s servants? Blink once if this is the truth.”

The witch’s eyes simply narrowed as she glared at him.

He pressed harder on her shoulder and then pushed the tip of his sword into the witch’s other shoulder. Her screamed was muffled against her gag, but still loud.

“Thaddeus,” Asaf said.

Thaddeus looked at his friend over his shoulder. The priest had a concerned look on his face, and he couldn’t tell if it was from his treatment of the witch or the fact that Brant and Jarvis rode up to them.

“Where have you been?” Thaddeus called.

The thane simply dismounted, throwing the reins to his huscarl with not a word. Thaddeus removed his foot from the witch and walked to the thane.

“Do you believe me now?” Thaddeus asked, presenting the field littered with dead peasants, the imp, and Blemmyae.

Brant looked around, eyes wide. He looked confused and irritated at the same time.

“Where have you been?” Thaddeus asked again.

Brant just shook his head.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, but then Thaddeus struck him across the face with the back of his hand.

Brant went to one knee and, looking up at Thaddeus with hatred in his eyes, stood and stepped forward.

“What do you think you …” Brant began to say, but Thaddeus hit him again across the face.

“I am getting tired of your sense of superiority,” Thaddeus said. “You have no idea who we are, but, believe me, I have seen more things and earned more favor in the sight of the church and of God than you could ever hope to. Answer me.”

“I have a Wessexer contact in Winchester,” Brant said, wiping blood from his split lips; his eyes showed a mixture of fear and surprise. “I had to speak with him before we left.”

“And why did you not tell us?” Thaddeus asked, shaking the man.

“It was none of your business,” Brant said, trying to stand straight and become defiant again.

“While you are with us,” Thaddeus hissed, “everything you do is our business. While you were gone, we were caught by this witch’s apprentice and her demons. Do you believe me now?”

Brant walked to where the apprentice lay, looking about at the dead demons.

“What do you mean to do with her?” Brant asked, crouching next to the witch.

She said something against the cloth muffling her and her face turned red. Brant stood and stepped back, shaking his head. The apprentice looked angry as she glared at the Saxon thane.

“I mean to interrogate her and find out what exactly the witch we seek is planning,” Thaddeus replied before he returned to stand over the witch.

“Watch him,” he said quietly to Asaf as he passed his friend.

Thaddeus knelt next to the witch as Gunnar, holding her hands behind her back, helped her sit up.

“Are you an apprentice?” he asked. “Blink once if yes.”

She didn’t do anything.

“Gunnar, give me her right hand,” Thaddeus commanded, and the Norseman did as he was told.

Thaddeus unsheathed his dagger and promptly removed the witch’s index finger on her right hand. In normal circumstances, she would have been a pretty woman with pale skin, a button nose, and piercing blue eyes, but blood and dirt were smeared across her face, and her long, blonde hair hung in muddy clumps. As she screamed and cried against the gag, her skin turned ashen gray, and her eyes became sunken and less brilliant. This was the price evil took, shown as her magic began to wear off.

“Thaddeus,” Gunnar said. “What are you doing?”

“I will ask again,” Thaddeus said, ignoring the Norseman. “Are you an apprentice to Renata?”

The witch blinked once. He looked over his shoulder. Asaf glared at him, Alden and Jarvis looked on in fear and wonder, and Brant looked apprehensive and nervous.

“Is she in Richmond?” Thaddeus asked.

Nothing. Her middle finger fell to the ground. And then the lobe of her right ear. She blinked once. Thaddeus looked to Gunnar. The Norseman shook his head, but Thaddeus had seen the Norseman do far worse.

“Does she have a hand in the war in the north, against the Scots?” Thaddeus asked.

One blink.

“Does she have a hand in the friction between William and Robert of Normandy?”

Nothing. The index finger on the other hand. A slice through the left nostril. The lobe of her left ear. One blink.

“Thaddeus!” Asaf yelled.

“Quiet,” Thaddeus commanded. “Gunnar, remove her gag.”

Gunnar hesitated, but when Thaddeus gave him a hard look, he did as he was told.

“Please,” the witch-apprentice gasped. “Please stop. I can take no more.”

Thaddeus looked over his shoulder as Brant stepped forward. Thaddeus stared at him over his shoulder, then looked back at the apprentice.

“Really?” Thaddeus said, gripping the whole of her neck with one hand and squeezing so that she struggled for breath, “and what of the people you have led to ruin? What of the people you have possessed and tortured?”

“She forced my hand,” the apprentice muttered. “Renata … she made me do all those things. I had no choice. I am the daughter of a poor peasant. We were starving. My mother had died. Our crops were failing. Our animals were sick. My brother was sick. What choice did we have?”

“Turn to the Lord,” Thaddeus said, a knot growing in his stomach. Witches and their kin lied like they breathed the air, but there was truth in this woman’s words. She didn’t have the strength to fight the truth. “Ask Him for help.”

“We did, sir,” the witch said, her head lolling to one side, sobbing in between each breath. “We prayed, and we prayed and prayed. When the fall yielded nothing, we prayed. When winter took my mother, we prayed harder. When fever took my brother, we prayed even harder. And then she showed up and made us an offer. At first, we thought she was sent from God. My brother was better. Our fields were plentiful, and our animals strong and fertile. And my father was happy. When she revealed herself to us, when she demanded to take me as her apprentice, what choice did we have?”

“There is always a choice, my child,” Asaf said, kneeling beside her, along with Thaddeus. He put a hand on her forehead. A look of pain crossed the priest’s face, and Thaddeus knew that her very touch could burn, but Asaf kept his hand there, nonetheless. “You can always choose.”

“She said she would kill my brother,” the woman said, sobbing even more. “She said she would sell me to the streets. Our farm would die away, and my father would die a pauper, consumed by dementia and boils. What choice was there in that?”

“She’s a liar!” Brant yelled. “If she’s a witch, wouldn’t she try to cast a spell? Something like that?”

“Shut your mouth!” Thaddeus said. “What do you care anyway? You don’t believe witches exist.”

The apprentice looked from Thaddeus to Brant. She groaned as blood streamed down her face from the slice in her nose, but she still managed to scowl at the thane. She turned back to Thaddeus.

“It is no lie,” the apprentice said. She tried to speak more but began coughing, and blood and foam spilled from her mouth, and her body twitched as the witch’s curse began to leave her.

“It’s all right my child,” Asaf said. “Quiet yourself. You don’t need to say anything.”

“I have one last question for you,” Thaddeus said.

The apprentice nodded slowly.

“Is Renata working alone?”

CHAPTER 23

BETWEEN COUGHS AND spasms of pain, the girl told them Renata was a High Priestess, part of a larger coven, spread throughout the Frankish kingdom.

“Damn it,” Asaf cursed. “This is becoming much larger than I had hoped.”

“As large as overthrowing a caliphate that currently rules the Holy Land?” Gunnar asked with a smile.

“You are a rat turd,” Asaf replied.

“Focus,” Thaddeus said. “Wulfstan was right. She is, perhaps, the most powerful witch we have ever faced.”

“And what do we do with her?” Gunnar asked, pointing to the apprentice, bloody and dirty and crying on the ground.

Thaddeus looked to Asaf.

“She asked for forgiveness,” Thaddeus said.

Brant laughed.

“Asaf, would you say last rites over her?” Thaddeus asked.

“After you tortured her?” Brant asked. “How quickly your heart melts for some young whore.”

“You are a cruel and stupid man,” Thaddeus said, “and the sooner I can be rid of you, the better.”

“She doesn’t need me to say any rites over her,” Asaf said, visibly nervous about doing what Thaddeus had asked.

“I know that,” Thaddeus said softly, “but it would comfort her.”

“We don’t even know what she has done, Thaddeus,” Asaf said.

“How could you even think to offer this whore forgiveness?” Brant asked. “If she is a witch like you say …”

“Do you still doubt?” Gunnar asked, lifting the dead imp by its legs and shaking it. He threw it at the thane’s feet, and the man gagged.

Brant looked away for a moment, swallowed hard, and then looked back at Thaddeus.

“She’s a witch, which means she deserves the stake and fire,” Brant said.

“Anyone can be redeemed,” Asaf replied.

“Not a witch,” Brant said.

“Oh, so you’re a theologian now, then? Do you not trust the Roman church?” Asaf asked sarcastically.

“It’s the church that backed the Normans,” Brant said flatly.

Asaf looked to Thaddeus.

“I still don’t know about saying last rites over her,” Asaf added.

Brant spat on the ground.

“Gunnar, watch her,” Thaddeus said and then looked at Brant, “and him.”

Gunnar nodded, and Thaddeus gently took Asaf by the arm and led him over to the large oak tree behind which the apprentice once hid.

“Are you so reluctant to give someone forgiveness?” Thaddeus asked.

“As much as it pains me to say so,” Asaf said, “Brant is right. We don’t know what she did. We don’t know if she truly wants forgiveness.”

“And if she doesn’t,” Thaddeus said, “what does it hurt?”

“She doesn’t need me to say last rites over her,” Asaf said, a stern look on his face. “She can ask God for forgiveness herself. She used to be a Christian.”

“A poor peasant girl who couldn’t read or write?” Thaddeus said. “The most Biblical and spiritual instruction she probably ever received was from some traveling friar who was more interested in her father’s coin and what was between her legs than teaching Christ’s parables and the Grace of God.”

“I don’t know,” Asaf said.

“Is it so hard for you to imagine such a person could receive forgiveness, given your past,” Thaddeus said, his eyes fixed hard on Asaf’s face.

“You go too far, Thaddeus,” Asaf said.

“Do I?” Thaddeus asked. “This coming from the priest who renounced the cloth so that he might kill his wife’s lover. The man who slept with his wife’s sister. And the man who delved into the mysticisms and witchcraft of the nomadic Arab tribes before finally coming back to Christ.”

“You have no right to bring up my past,” Asaf said, pointing a finger at Thaddeus and growing red-faced.

“You were the father of a whole community of Christians, in the Holy Land, nonetheless,” Thaddeus said, “only to become a murderer and an adulterer. You were present at the Council of Ephesus, only to turn your back on our Lord.”

Asaf turned his face away from Thaddeus.

“Do you bring up my past so I might relive my pain?” Asaf asked.

“No,” Thaddeus replied. “I bring up your past so that you might remember how far our Lord’s grace extends. God saved you, did he not?”

“I don’t know,” Asaf said, looking at Thaddeus with red-rimmed eyes, “has He?”

“As much as you jest about your salvation,” Thaddeus said, “you know the Lord has saved you from damnation. Why else would you be traveling with me these last six hundred years, doing His work?”

Asaf nodded his head and gave a short laugh.

“All right,” he said, “I will say last rites over this woman, even though you and I both know she could simply ask for forgiveness by herself.”

At that moment, they both heard someone cry out and saw a bright flash of light, coming from where their companions stood watch over the apprentice. Thaddeus and Asaf ran to their friends, only to find Jarvis, Alden, and Gunnar lying on the ground unconscious, and Brant standing over the apprentice holding a bloody sword, blood pooling underneath her.

“What happened here?” Thaddeus asked as he rushed to Gunnar.

His friend was still breathing and began to come to as Thaddeus lifted his head. Both Alden and Jarvis began to groan and move slowly as well.

“She is dead,” Asaf said, kneeling next to the apprentice, his fingers at the woman’s neck and looking up at Brant with squinted eyes and pursed lips.

“I am fine,” Brant said. “Thank you for asking.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Thaddeus said, helping Gunnar to his feet. “What happened here?”

“As you two spoke of a witch’s salvation,” Brant explained, “she tried casting a spell. In fact, she did. That is why those three were unconscious.”

Gunnar stood, still quite wobbly on his feet. Alden was on his knees, and Jarvis sat up, rubbing his head.

“And you remained unaffected,” Thaddeus said.

“I had looked away, just in time,” Brant replied. “She tried casting another spell, this one on me, but I ran her through and ended her miserable, cursed life before she could.”

“What was the flash of light?” Asaf asked.

“What was that?” Brant asked.

“There was a flash of light,” Asaf said. “We saw it from behind that oak tree. What was it?”

“Oh, well, it must have been the witch’s attempt to cast her spell on me,” Brant said. “She simply spoke several words to incapacitate those three, and that was when I rushed her.”

“And you saw no light?” Asaf asked with a cocked eyebrow.

“I must have closed my eyes, just at the right time,” Brant said, “for I saw no light before I killed this Devil’s whore.”

“Is this what happened?” Thaddeus asked, looking from Gunnar, to Alden, to Jarvis.

“How would they know?” Brant asked. “They were unconscious.”

Jarvis continued to rub his head, and Gunnar grabbed his knees, seemingly dizzy.

“I don’t know, Thaddeus,” Gunnar said. “I was watching the woman. Her breathing was slowing, and I remember thinking she was about to pass. Then there was nothing, just darkness. When I opened my eyes, you were staring at me.”

Asaf began praying over the dead woman’s body.

“You would pray over a minion of the Devil?” Brant asked.

“She had asked for forgiveness,” Asaf replied.

“And then she attacked me,” Brant said. “Clearly she was lying … trying to deceive you.”

“Perhaps,” Asaf said. “There seems to be a lot of deception in this place.”

“You know not the heart of this woman,” Thaddeus said, Asaf continuing with his prayers.

“If he prays over her, and she is lying, it will be to the priest’s damnation,” Brant said.

“According to who?” Thaddeus asked.

“The pope,” Brant replied.

“Truly?” Thaddeus asked. “I have never heard him say such a thing. And certainly, the Bible says no such thing.”

Brant huffed, sheathing his sword so hard he practically pushed the blade through the leather. Walking away, he spoke harshly to Jarvis in their Saxon language. The huscarl rose to his feet, unsteady, and prepared the thane’s horse.

“If you remember anything,” Thaddeus whispered to Gunnar, “let me know. Continue to keep an eye on the thane.”

CHAPTER 24

T  HEY WERE CLOSE to Richmond. The land around them looked more wretched than before.

“She is growing stronger,” Thaddeus muttered, and Gunnar nodded. “You still don’t remember anything?” Thaddeus asked, and Gunnar shook his head, the frustration shown in the frown that furled his thick eyebrows.

Brant had been distant since the episode after they left Winchester. Thaddeus supposed he was upset, perhaps about the knowledge of witches being real, or more so, because their whole mission had been a complex ruse. But, as of late, the thane had been acting oddly. He left every day just at dusk.

“I’m going hunting,” he would say, and yet return empty-handed.

“When did he ever hunt?” Asaf asked.

“Never,” Gunnar had replied. “Jarvis has always hunted for him.”

“But why doesn’t he take his servant now?” Thaddeus asked.

He watched Brant as the thane sat on the other side of their fire, the flames sputtering in the light rain, daring the weather to extinguish it, and thick clouds covered the sun as the light of day waned. Thaddeus was tired, so he had opted for an early camp. They were only a day or so away from Richmond, and they would need their strength.

“What was that?” Alden asked.

“What was what?” Asaf asked.

“What you did back in Winchester,” Alden said, “against the apprentice and her … her minions? You cast some sort of spell.”

“It was no spell,” Asaf said with a frown and a raised eyebrow.

“Then what was it?” Alden asked.

“A prayer,” Asaf replied.

“It looked like a spell,” Alden said.

“It was a prayer,” Asaf repeated, “a request I sent to the Lord, which He granted.”

“Has He ever not granted your request?” Alden asked.

“Yes,” Asaf replied, “when it isn’t His will.”

“Why didn’t you just do that at the beginning of the fight?” Alden asked.

“It drains me,” Asaf replied. “It tires me. Takes away my energy.”

“Like a spell,” Alden said.

“No, not like a spell,” Asaf snapped, and Gunnar couldn’t help but start laughing as the priest grew more and more irritated. “Haven’t you been listening? It is a prayer.”

“That drains your energy,” Alden added.

“Yes,” Asaf replied, a little more patiently. “It is a gift God has given me, but it takes a tremendous amount of concentration. After reciting such a prayer, I am always tired.”

“Like a spell,” Alden said.

“You are hopeless,” Asaf said. “I’ll answer you no more on the matter.”

Gunnar laughed aloud, and Thaddeus couldn’t help cracking a smile, Brant all the while chiding his huscarl about something; the fact that he didn’t pack his bags correctly or saddle his horse the right way.

“So, Brant, tell me once again how this dying witch was able to cast not one, but two spells, incapacitate three hardy souls, and almost immobilize you.”

“I have already told you,” Brant said.

“Tell me again.”

“Why?” Brant asked.

“The details of your story may help us fight the High Priestess,” Thaddeus explained.

Brant stared at Thaddeus, something about her name causing the thane to frown.

“Who?” he asked.

“The High Priestess,” Thaddeus replied, “the witch who is poisoning this land.”

“How?” Brant asked. “How will what happened in Winchester help us fight Renata?”

“How did you know her name?” Thaddeus asked.

“Who?”

“Renata, the witch,” Thaddeus replied.

“You said it,” Brant said, “when you were trying to convince me witches were real.”

“I did?” Thaddeus asked with pretense in his voice.

“Yes,” Brant replied. “How else would I know her name?”

“Indeed,” Thaddeus muttered.

“And how would anything that happened back there help us?” Brant asked.

“Maybe it gives us insight into her motives,” Thaddeus replied, “or her magic, or how she works or moves. Truth be told, I am surprised Renata let her apprentice—I am sorry to say I never got her name—live as long as she did. When I killed a moor in Richmond …”

“You killed the …” Brant said, cutting off Thaddeus, looking up at him intently, and then stopping himself. “You killed a moor? There was a moor in Richmond. How unusual?”

“Unusual indeed,” Thaddeus said. “Did you know of him?”

“No, of course not,” Brant said.

“You are familiar with Richmond, though, yes?” Thaddeus asked.

“Yes, of course,” Brant replied.

“A moor in Richmond,” Thaddeus said. “It would be an odd sight. How hadn’t you heard of him?”

“Am I supposed to know everything that happens in England?” Brant yelled, throwing a stick into the fire with an angry huff.

“Well, when I tried interrogating him,” Thaddeus explained, “the witch killed him, even though she was no longer in Richmond.”

“So,” Brant said with a shrug.

“Why didn’t she kill her apprentice?” Thaddeus asked. “She could have, even if she was in Richmond already. She could have cast a spell and consumed her with flame, or commanded giant, hairy spiders to crawl from her mouth and suffocate her.”

“I don’t know,” Brant replied.

“Perhaps, she knew she would die some other way,” Thaddeus said, glaring at Brant.

“What does that mean?” Brant asked.

“Nothing,” Thaddeus replied. “Tell me again what happened.”

“The witch cast a spell,” Brant said. “There was a bright light that incapacitated those three. I closed my eyes so it would not affect me and then before she could cast another spell, I ran her through with my sword. There you have it. The events that led up to that whore’s death, yet once again.”

“I thought you said you didn’t see a flash of light,” Thaddeus said.

“What?” Brant asked.

“You said you didn’t see a bright light,” Thaddeus said.

“You saw it,” Brant said.

“That’s right, we did,” Asaf added, “but you said you didn’t.”

“Maybe I didn’t, then,” Brant said. “I’m confused.”

“And the witch incapacitated Gunnar, Alden, and Jarvis with a spell?” Thaddeus asked.

“Yes!” Brant replied.

“Then why is there a bruise and dried blood on the back of Jarvis’ head?” Asaf asked.

“He probably suffered the wound while fighting,” Brant said. “He’s a clumsy fool.”

“I didn’t see it,” Thaddeus said. “Asaf, Gunnar, did you see that happen.”

Both men shook their heads.

“What is this?” Brant shouted, and he stood. “Why am I being interrogated?”

Thaddeus stood as well.

“Because your story is false, Brant,” Thaddeus accused, “and so are you.”

Brant’s hand went to the handle of his sword. Thaddeus drew his blade, still glowing with the faint blueness of Wulfstan’s blessing.

“What are you about, Brant?” Thaddeus asked quietly, almost as if speaking to himself.

“The same thing you are,” Brant replied. “Serving my lord.”

“And who is your lord?” Thaddeus asked.

Gunnar and Asaf stood as well. So did Alden.

“Sit!” Brant yelled as Jarvis moved to stand as well. “Prince Harold is my lord.”

“I don’t think so,” Thaddeus said.

“I smell the stink on him,” Gunnar said. “It was weak at first, but it grows every day.”

Asaf nodded.

“Your lord is not an earthly lord,” Thaddeus said, “but it is no heavenly lord either.”

Brant looked from one man to the next, face growing red, teeth grinding and jaws flexing, eyes narrowing, cheeks puffing, but then he stood straight and laughed.

“You are fools,” he said.

“You serve the witch,” Thaddeus said, pointing an accusatory finger at the man.

“If she has possessed you,” Asaf said, “I can …”

“She didn’t possess me,” Brant replied with a scoffing laugh. “And she doesn’t control me.”

“That is where you are wrong,” Thaddeus said.

“We have a deal,” Brant said. “She tried seducing me into her bed. She had several other thanes, but I have no interest in some Frankish bitch. It might surprise you, oh holy warrior, that I resisted her charms.”

“Then why?” Thaddeus asked.

“She told me her plan,” Brant replied. “She wished to sow discord between the Normans and Scots, the Normans and Franks, the Jews and Muslims. What do I care? I have the same wish to see Norman, Scot, Jewish, and Muslim blood spilled.”

“But what of all the innocent people, murdered by Count Stephen,” Gunnar asked, “by the witch? Your people.”

“Peasants,” Brant hissed. “They’re expendable. If the aim is to rid this land of the Normans and the Scots and the Britons to the east, then I would sacrifice ten times more.”

“And your reward?” Thaddeus asked. “Payment for your help?”

“Kingship, of course,” Brant replied. “I wouldn’t do it for anything less.”

“So, you could care less about the Godwinsons?” Asaf asked.

“Fools!” Brant shouted. “They should have never lost England. Harold’s idiot grandfather died with an arrow sticking out of his eye. It is time for a new age. It is time for Brant Edgarson to be king of England and bring order to this land.”

“You are the fool, then,” Thaddeus said, “if you think the witch will uphold her end of the bargain. When she is done here, and you come to collect your debt, she will put you in chains and give you over to her host of demons, who will, in turn, bend you over a chair and have their way with you.”

“I will deal with that when that time comes,” Brant said. “She taught me some of her magic. And I have learned more, on my own. Old magic, from the ancient Saxons and Britons and Picts.”

“He thinks he’s a warlock,” Gunnar said with a laugh.

“That is how you killed Rowan, then, isn’t it?” Thaddeus asked. “You were gone, but you were able to kill him anyway.”

“I became a wraith,” Brant said. “I walked out of the abbey, and then floated back in. He was a traitor. He deserved what he got, maybe more.”

“And the witch’s apprentice?” Thaddeus asked.

“I blinded everyone, hit Jarvis over the head, and killed that bitch,” Brant said with a shrug. “Who cares? Renata thinks she is so powerful. Just wait. Wait until I am king.”

Asaf reached for the thane, but Brant reached into his tunic, retrieved a round amulet centered with a green emerald, and muttered something. The amulet flashed, and Asaf stumbled backward. Brant spoke another spell, and the fire blazed twice the size it had been only a moment before.

“Gunnar,” Thaddeus said, but as the Swede stabbed his spear at the thane, the thane extended a hand and a gust of wind forced Gunnar back.

“Devil worshipper!” Jarvis yelled, standing with his sword gripped in both hands, yelling in his broken Latin.

He was close enough to Brant that he didn’t have enough time to cast a spell. His house soldier elbowed him in his gut, pushing the thane back, but the blow had missed the solar plexus. Brant dropped his amulet and drew his sword. The melee that followed was short. Brant blocked every attack Jarvis gave and followed up with a slash across the man’s inner thigh, under his arm, and across his chest. Jarvis crumpled to the ground in a bloody mess, but as he focused on his squire, Alden crept up behind him, sword in both hands, and stabbed Brant in his back.

The Mercian’s sword punched through Brant’s belly. The thane dropped his own sword and gripped Alden’s blade. As he turned to face Thaddeus, the look he gave was one of surprise and disappointment. He thought he was too good to die at the hands of a man like Alden. Alden let go of his sword as Brant staggered towards the fire. The thane fell to his knees, still gripping the blade.

“You are a wicked man,” Thaddeus said, “and you will reap your reward in hell as you burn for all eternity.”

Brant tried to speak but couldn’t. Instead, he fell forward, landing in the campfire, flame first consuming his clothing and then his body, the air filled with the stink of burning flesh as the ground pushed the sword back out of his body.

“Help him,” Thaddeus said, nodding towards Jarvis.

“Is he alive?” Gunnar asked.

“Yes,” Asaf replied, touching his fingers to the man’s neck.

“How did we miss this?” Gunnar asked as Asaf tended to Jarvis. Neither of his friends could offer an answer. Thaddeus was cursing himself for not seeing Brant’s treachery earlier.

The cut to the house soldier’s chest looked superficial, his leather jerkin and cloth hauberk taking most of the impact. But the cuts to his inner thigh and inner arm looked mean. Thaddeus knew that Brant was aiming for major arteries, trying to strike a deathblow. It was what he was trained to do, so many years ago in the Roman Empire. Most soldiers wore all their armor on their torso, protecting the heart and lungs among other internal organs and leaving the arms and legs exposed. One deep cut to either location and a soldier would bleed out before someone could say a prayer of forgiveness over them.

“I don’t have any stitching,” Asaf said.

Thaddeus looked to the fire, Brant’s body still burning there.

“Burn the wounds shut,” Thaddeus said, and Asaf drew a dagger that rested on his hip, pulled Brant’s body from the fire, and rested the blade in the fire, the handle resting on a stone.

When the blade was hot enough, Gunnar held Jarvis’ shoulders back and placed a cloth in his mouth while Asaf pressed the white-hot metal to both his inner thigh and inner arm. Again, the smell of burning meat caused a nauseating aroma to rise, and Thaddeus felt himself gag. This time he felt emotion for the pain the burning would cause.

“Will he live?” Thaddeus asked, looking at the now sleeping Jarvis, his face red and sweaty but showing no pain.

“Yes,” Asaf replied. “His wounds aren’t that terrible, and I’ve seen men survive worse. He will be sore.”

“Can he fight?” Thaddeus asked.

“If pressed,” Asaf said, looking at Jarvis, “yes. The wounds closed well, but his skin will be tight and painful. The burns will blister.”

“Did you suspect the thane?” Gunnar asked.

“I had an idea of something,” Thaddeus said, “when we were in Hyde Abbey. I don’t think I ever expected him of serving the witch. I knew he was false and a hateful man. I should have seen the extent of his treachery sooner.”

“Shall we move on from here?” Gunnar asked, looking at the smoldering body of the thane.

Thaddeus shook his head.

“The stink of burning flesh is no worse than the stink of evil,” Thaddeus said. “Besides, Jarvis needs to rest.”

Thaddeus turned to Alden. The man seemed shaken.

“Alden, you did well today,” Thaddeus said.

“I delighted in killing him,” Alden said. “I imagined it, day after day. Is that wrong?”

“Yes, and no,” Thaddeus replied. “It is hard not to want retribution against a man who wished harm on you and your people, but delighting in another man’s death is sinful. But he was also evil, and we should praise God as evil leaves this earth and is replaced with His good things.”

Thaddeus looked at Alden, and the man nodded his understanding before Thaddeus continued.

“This is the struggle we have as warriors, soldiers, and knights, Alden. Our job is to protect and fight for that which is righteous and good, but that means we must take life, life that the Lord has given. I pray that every life I have taken was not taken in anger, although I know that many were, if in the midst of a good cause. So, I say prayers seeking forgiveness every night and have hope that the Lord our God hears them and accepts them. You should pray, too, Alden. Pray for forgiveness. Pray for the soul of Brant. Pray for the souls of the men you will kill.”

CHAPTER 25

A LDEN’S FACE SCREWED into a disgusted look. Death. Death had a peculiar smell, and each thing death touched differed in a way. Fruit smelled sweet when it first started to decay. Fish smelled like some twisted version of the ocean. Dead meat, crawling with maggots and turning black, smelled the worst, especially decaying meat that was human flesh. It smelled worse than any evil could smell. In fact, it was the epitome of evil.

“I think I smell it,” Alden said, sitting up in his saddle as they neared Richmond, “the demon stink you keep talking about.”

“No,” Thaddeus said, “that isn’t demon stink.”

“What is it then?” Alden asked.

“Death.”

Thaddeus pointed to a tall wooden pole rising from a small mound in the ground. As they neared it, they could see someone was hanging on the pole. As they got even closer, they saw it was a man, stripped naked, red marks all over his body. His hands and feet had been nailed into the wood, his hands tied to the wood as well just in case the nails ripped through his flesh.

“Christ Almighty,” Gunnar said, crossing himself.

“For God’s sake, who would do such a thing?” Alden asked.

“The witch,” Thaddeus growled.

Similar posts lined the road leading up to the city of Richmond. Some were crude poles, barely the trunks of trees with knobby stubs of branches still present, and others were crosses, fashioned to mimic the one on which Christ was crucified. The victims of crucifixion were indiscriminate. Men and women, young and old, hung to die an agonizing death. Whenever they came across a person still clinging to life, Gunnar blessed them with a quick death at the point of his spear, and Asaf prayed for each soul that met their end at the perversions of the witch Renata.

“She is worried,” Thaddeus said. “That is the only explanation for such depravity. Word of this will spread. She must be enacting her plans to influence the English courts earlier than she had hoped.”

“We can’t just ride into the city, Thaddeus,” Asaf said.

“No, we cannot,” Thaddeus agreed. “While the witch will no doubt sense our presence, we must enter undetected by her minions. Under cover of darkness would be best. Alden, is there a place where we can hide our horses in relative safety?”

“We should be able to leave our horses there,” Alden said, pointing to the thick forest of oak, ash, beech, and elm trees. “This was a hunting place for the thanes of Hinderlag, and now the earls of Richmond. No one has come around here for some time now; at least, not as long as the witch has been influencing Alan Rufus and Count Stephen. Normally, I would be worried about wolves, but I’ve hardly seen any signs of wildlife.”

The forest lay not even an hour away from Richmond. There wasn’t a village or town by the forest, but it was obvious that people had lived near there, with abandoned homes and tanning houses and supply houses for hunters. The buildings were dilapidated and looked as if they hadn’t been used even before the witch took control in Richmond, but who knew? Evil had a way of decaying things.

“If we tie them up inside one of the old homes, they should be all right,” said Alden before he led the way forward once more.

“You will be all right, Polemistes,” Thaddeus said, patting the horses massively muscled neck after he’d removed the saddle and tied the reins to a beam in one of the abandoned houses.

“You’d think he was talking to a woman,” Asaf commented.

“Nah,” Gunnar said, “we all know Thaddeus doesn’t do that. Although, I think he loves that horse more than he loves us.”

The Norseman laughed.

“Of course, I do,” Thaddeus said, turning around and smiling. “He’s never grumpy, and he doesn’t tell bad jokes.”

Thaddeus walked by Asaf and Gunnar laughing while they gave him flat looks. Alden began to chuckle.

“What’s so funny, eh?” Gunnar asked, and Alden just shrugged, still smiling.

“Gunnar, before we go,” Thaddeus said, “bring an oilskin bag of extra clothes—pants and shirts and breeches.”

“Why?” Gunnar asked.

“Trust me,” Thaddeus said with a smile.

As they approached the city, night began to fall, and Norman soldiers began lighting torches along the roadway.

“There should be a drainage system leading into the city,” Thaddeus said. “The walls are Roman. They would have built a grate into the city. Our best chance is there.”

They slinked away into the growing darkness, using what shadows they could find to avoid the watchful eyes of guards patrolling the top of the curtain walls of the city. The ditch around the city was shallow and, in places, mounds of wet earth rose from the murky water. Thaddeus found one such mound, jumped to it, even though his boots sunk almost knee deep in the mud, and then leaped to the narrow strip of earth on the outside of the wall. His companions followed suit.

Their going was slow, backs pressed hard against the wall so they wouldn’t fall into the water. They probably could have waded through the water and been quicker, but it would have caused unnecessary noise, and it was undoubtedly frigid. Thaddeus could feel that much as some of the water had already entered his boots.

After an hour of creeping along the wall, Thaddeus stopped, putting up a hand.

“Do you hear that?” he asked, as the sound of trickling water could be heard. “It’s just over there,” he added, and in moments, they came to a small archway in the bottom of the wall protected by a gate of crisscrossed iron bars.

“Is that demon stink?” Alden asked.

“No,” Gunnar said with a quick laugh, “that’s piss and shit.”

Thaddeus stepped into the water. It rose just above his knees, and he shivered. It was freezing. He began working his dagger along the tops of the iron bars of the grate.

“This gate is old,” Thaddeus explained, “and rusted.”

He was careful as he worked. Being old and rusted, the grate might be removed rather quickly and painlessly, but it would make a lot of noise, no doubt alerting watchful guards. Thaddeus slowly worked his blade against the old bolts holding the metal to the stone wall, seeking to lever each one out as he tried to steel himself against the freezing water. He had to stop for a moment, just to gather himself, he was shivering so badly.

Gunnar tapped him on the shoulder, revealing his own dagger, moved Thaddeus to the side, and Gunner replaced him in working at the grate.

“By Christ Almighty,” Thaddeus exclaimed in a whisper. “This stinking water is freezing.”

Gunnar finally finished what Thaddeus had started, and they pulled the iron grate away, gently leaning it against the wall.

“When we are done with this,” Gunnar said, trying to lighten the mood as they worked their way through a sewage tunnel filled with human filth, and rats the size of cats, “and Count Stephen has his wits about him, we must tell him about this weakness in his defenses.”

“This isn’t good for Jarvis,” Asaf whispered to Thaddeus. “Human filth in his wounds.”

“We should have left him back in the Forest,” Thaddeus replied.

“I’m fine,” Jarvis said. “Just keep moving. I will be fine. This witch must pay for what she has done to my people.”

Thaddeus nodded with a smile, but the man’s normal ruddy complexion was lost on his skin’s paleness. His eyes looked sunken, and his lids hung half closed. He grimaced with pain with every step and movement.

The city of Richmond was quiet and dark inside the city walls, save for the torch fire of Norman guards and the occasional lantern still hanging lit in a window. They were lucky for the sewer leading to the city’s moat. Rome and any other significant Roman metropolis was known for its sewage systems, but it seemed a lost art of municipal construction after the fall of the empire. Thaddeus had been all over Europe, and the only places that bore any semblance of a sewage system were those like Richmond, ones built over former Roman forts and cities.

“What now?” Asaf asked.

“By God we smell,” Gunnar said, crinkling his nose and turning his head away as if that would save him from his own smell.

“Now you know why I suggested those clean clothes,” Thaddeus said, managing a grin as he still shook from the cold.

“You could have told me why I was packing clean breeches,” Gunnar said, retrieving the clean clothes from his haversack and distributing them to each man.

“I just wanted to make sure you understood how smart I am,” Thaddeus said with a smile, “and that I am always two steps ahead of you.” Gunnar just rolled his eyes and chuckled, removing his mail shirt and underclothes.

When they had changed, Gunnar collected the men’s dirty clothes and threw them into the sewer. They still smelled, but no worse than many others in a large city like Richmond, so Thaddeus knew they wouldn’t attract any unwanted attention. They were walking about at night, which would always be an oddity in a city in northern Europe, so they would have to use the shadows to their advantage.

Thaddeus looked up at the castle. It was a huge stone structure constructed differently from many of the mostly wooden castles of England and France, with a large stone tower and two curtain walls, one smaller and one larger. The larger curtain wall undoubtedly contained most of the castle’s buildings and was built along a steep slope that eventually gave way to the River Swale, making it almost impossible to enter the compound from there. The smaller curtain wall, which surrounded the front of the keep, was tall, with a raised, stone walkway leading to the gatehouse.

“We have to create a distraction,” Thaddeus said.

They slinked along the shadows of Richmond’s streets until coming to Chandler Street. There, they tiptoed along until they reached a familiar door. The single window in the house was dark. Thaddeus knocked softly. Nothing. He heard footsteps, just down the street.

“Hurry, Thaddeus,” Gunnar said.

Thaddeus knocked again. Still nothing. Again, this time a little louder. Still nothing. The footsteps came closer.

“Soldiers,” Asaf whispered. “Either get us into the house or get ready for a fight.”

Thaddeus knocked one more time. Still nothing.

“Damn it,” Thaddeus muttered.

He knew the door had a simple latch on the other side, a piece of wood Hugh would slide through an iron loop. The footsteps were just around a simple bend in the street. It was dark, so he couldn’t see any shadows, but the patrol was getting closer. Thaddeus pushed on the door and felt the wooden lock catch against the iron loop. He pushed again, putting his shoulder into the door, and heard the wood moving, cracking a bit. He heard Alden unsheathe his sword and looked over his shoulder. The soldiers would soon discover them.

Thaddeus shouldered the door as hard as he could and heard wood crack before the slight clink of metal as the iron catch bounced across the room. The five men spilled into the house before Gunnar pushed the door and held it closed with his foot. They could hear the soldiers talking outside, wondering what the noise had been.

Someone emerged from the bedroom.

“What the …” a man began to say in English, but Thaddeus grabbed him and pulled him to the ground, clapping a hand over the man’s mouth.

“It’s me, Hugh,” Thaddeus whispered in his best English.

He could see the man look up at him, and he stopped struggling, understanding. Thaddeus removed his hand. At the same time, Hilda emerged from the bedroom, but before she could scream, Asaf grabbed her by the shoulders, clapped his hand over her mouth and shushed her with his other hand. Hugh muttered something to her, and she nodded.

One of the soldiers knocked and then pushed on the door. Gunnar pushed back with his foot, allowing a little give so that it felt like the door was still being held in place by a lock. The soldier knocked again, louder.

“S’ouvrir,” the soldier said.

“Onhlid!” another soldier said, a little louder.

Hugh pointed to a corner of the room, and Thaddeus understood. He grabbed Asaf’s shoulder, and they huddled in that corner, out of sight in the shadows. Thaddeus drew his sword as both Gunnar and Asaf held daggers.

Hugh opened the door. The soldiers sounded angry, and one stepped a foot inside the house, but the Saxon man began to plead with the soldier. Thaddeus couldn’t make out what he was saying, but it seemed to be working, and the soldier stepped back as the conversation went on. But then Ansom poked his head out of the bedroom. With the open door and a bit of moonlight, Thaddeus could see the boy’s furled eyebrows and pursed lips, and he prayed Hugh’s son didn’t do anything stupid, but the boy just waited. Hilda whispered something to her son and came to Hugh’s side, acting as if she had just woken up, rubbing her eyes and giving a fake yawn. Thaddeus could tell that the soldiers mocked the woman about the recent rape, which made her visually uncomfortable, but eventually, one of the soldiers gave Hugh a hard shove and then walked away, laughing.

Thaddeus stood, and Hugh and Hilda both hugged him, as did Anson and the other little ones when they finally emerged from the bedroom.

“I will fix your lock,” Thaddeus said, through Alden.

Hugh waved him off with a hand.

“What are you doing here?” Hugh asked.

“We have unfinished business,” Thaddeus said.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” Hugh said. “Richmond is cursed.”

“I know,” Thaddeus replied. “That is why we are here.”

Hugh gave Thaddeus a curious look.

“It is complicated,” Thaddeus said, “but we are here to help the people of Richmond, Hugh. These dark days are nigh at an end. Have faith.”

“We trust you,” Hugh said, “but Count Stephen …” The man looked close to tears.

“... he is evil, and you cannot fight the whole of Richmond’s garrison.”

“This is not the Count’s doing,” Thaddeus said. Seeing another confused look crossing Hugh’s face when Alden translated, Thaddeus added, “I cannot explain. Just know we are here to lift the curse that is on this city and its people.”

“It will take a miracle,” Hilda said.

“We’ve seen plenty of miracles in our days,” Thaddeus said, “and in worse situations and places.”

“The Count has ordered the deaths of dozens of Richmond’s citizens,” Hugh said, “but mostly the younger men and women. He is having them crucified, as much as he can, like our blessed Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. God have mercy on this place and on their souls.”

“We saw,” Thaddeus replied. “Truly, the Lord will have mercy on their souls.”

“It is an impossible task,” Hugh said.

“Do you trust our Lord?” Thaddeus asked, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Yes, sir,” Hugh said, lowering his head for doubting God.

“Then trust, my good man,” Thaddeus said. “God has sent us here to help. Trust in Him and, so, trust in us.”

Hugh crossed himself.

“I am sorry for my unbelief ...” Hugh began.

“Stop,” Thaddeus said. “You are a good and faithful man. But to do this, to do what the Lord has called us to do, we need to create a distraction,” he said.

“A distraction?” Hugh asked.

“Yes,” Thaddeus replied. “We need to draw the soldiers and guards away from the castle. That is where the witch is. A fire in a city like Richmond will surely command their attention.”

Alden looked as if he might argue but still translated.

“A fire,” Hilda said, voicing Alden’s thoughts. “That could destroy everything. There would be no way to contain it.”

“Trust. Trust in the Lord. Please look after Jarvis but go tell your neighbors to stay inside their homes,” Thaddeus commanded.

“It is the dead of night,” Hugh said.

“Wake them,” Thaddeus said. “Tell them that they are to tell their neighbors, and their neighbors are to tell theirs, and so on. Once we start the fire, they will be safe if they stay in their homes. Asaf?”

The defrocked priest looked at Thaddeus.

“That will take a lot,” Asaf said.

“We will have time to rest after this is done,” Thaddeus said.

“Will we?” Asaf asked.

“Asaf will be in the bedroom, praying,” Thaddeus explained. “He is to remain undisturbed. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Hilda replied.

“Anson, is there an area of the city with storage buildings and wood piles?” Thaddeus asked.

“Yes, there is,” Anson replied.

“Can you take us there?” Thaddeus asked.

“No,” Hilda said with wide eyes, grabbing one of her son’s arms. “He cannot leave this home.”

“Hilda, he will be fine,” Thaddeus said.

“Absolutely not,” Hilda said, tears streaming down her face.

“Please, trust me,” Thaddeus said.

“Wife, these men are godly men,” Hugh said. “They are blessed, holy warriors. We must trust them.”

Thaddeus grabbed Anson’s shoulder, gently pulling him away from his mother. Hilda buried her face in her hands and wept. He looked to Hugh. The man simply nodded with a flat mouth.

“Hurry, we don’t have any time,” Thaddeus said.

Thaddeus, Gunnar, Alden, and Anson ran through the city as quickly as they could, using the shadows from tall buildings to mask them as best as possible. The streets were quiet and still, not the usual darkness of night that anyone might find in northern Europe as the sun set, but an uneasy stillness. It was as if fear hung over the city like a thick blanket and, if Thaddeus could see through walls, families huddled together in the farthest corners of their homes.

They finally came to a far corner of the northwestern part of the city. It was an open area, lit comparatively well by torches and two pyres. At least half a dozen soldiers congregated around a fire built into a brick enclosure. They were loud, breaking the eerie and uneasy silence with lewd joking and cursing in Frankish, but as much as their noise would hide any movement, it still brought discomfort. They spoke of bedding virgin girls in the city and beating their fathers, or stealing from the market vendors, terrorizing the simple serfs of the county, or laughing at crying mothers as they nailed their sons and daughters and husbands to poles and displayed them along the road leading to Richmond.

Wooden buildings sat along the wall, all storehouses and warehouses of some sort. An open stall stood on the other side of the narrow road across from them, still hidden in the darkness of night. Thaddeus sniffed at the air and heard the neighing of several horses. One soldier grabbed a log from a pile of wood stacked on one side of the pyre farthest from where Thaddeus and his companions hid in the shadows. The soldier saw nothing amiss, and he turned again to drop the wood into the fire.

“I count eleven men,” Gunnar whispered.

Thaddeus nodded.

“With only three of us that can fight,” Gunnar added, “those are not good odds.”

“We will release the horses,” Thaddeus said. “That will draw at least some of the soldiers away. Then we will set the hay on fire … and those wooden buildings.”

“Will Asaf be able to protect the city and its believers?” Gunnar asked.

“God will,” Thaddeus said, looking at his friend, eye to eye, and smiling. “Anson, do you know your way back home, in the darkness?”

“Yes sir,” Anson replied, and Thaddeus gave more instructions via Alden.

“You will unhitch the horses, shoo them out of the stables, and then run home as fast as you can, unseen,” Thaddeus said.

“Yes sir,” Anson replied. Thaddeus could see a mixture of excitement and fear, even in the darkness, on the boy’s face.

Anson stood and moved to do as he was told, but Thaddeus grabbed his arm.

“Do you know what an owl sounds like?” he asked.

Anson nodded after Alden translated.

“Do not release the horses until you hear the sound of an owl,” Thaddeus commanded.

Anson nodded again.

“Go with God,” Thaddeus said in his limited Saxon.

Anson nodded once more, smiled, and hurried off into the darkness.

Thaddeus waited only a little while before tapping Gunnar on the shoulder. Gunnar cupped his hands around his mouth and hooted.

In only a few moments, a loud whinny broke through the silence of the city, and the soldiers’ conversation stopped. Thaddeus saw the silhouette of a young man running as wood crashed and hooves stomped.

“Goddamn it!” yelled one of the soldiers.

“I bet it’s one of those little Saxon bastards,” another one cried, “playing tricks again.”

“Won’t be so funny when he watches me fuck his mother,” another soldier said.

“Or when I nail his little prick to a wooden pole,” yet another said, which brought laughter from the others.

“Well?” a different voice, one that was rough and deep, asked. “Are you fatherless cumberwolds going to just laugh, or are you going to retrieve those horses and slap that little bastard in irons?”

The laughing stopped, and four soldiers ran off in the same direction Anson had run.

“Run fast, boy,” Gunnar muttered.

“He’ll be fine,” Thaddeus said, putting a comforting hand on the large man’s shoulder.

The deep voiced soldier matched his speech, large and mean and dark. Where the other soldiers wore shirts made of thick leather and cloth, he wore an iron hauberk, and where the others held spears, wore conical helms, and carried kite shields, he simply wore a long sword at his hip, carried no shield, and wore no helm. Dark hair curled into thick knots spilled over his shoulders, and a bramble of a black beard hung from his face. His eyes were barely visible under thick and equally dark eyebrows. The man looked a giant among the other soldiers, broad and strong and tall.

“Be on the lookout you stupid muck-spouts,” the obvious leader said, one thumb tucked into the front of a wide belt buckled around his hauberk and the other hand pointing to each of the six remaining soldiers. “Something is afoot, and you raggabrashes are over here joking and lying about women you’ve never stuck.”

“I don’t know about that,” one soldier quipped, but before anyone else could laugh, the backhand of their leader struck the soldier across the face, sending him to the ground. He stood, spitting out a tooth, wiping blood away from his mouth, and wobbling a bit.

“Any more jokes?”

None of the soldiers said anything.

“Do you have a dagger?” Thaddeus asked.

Gunnar nodded.

“I will take the one closest to us. You take the one farthest with your spear and then that blond one with your dagger,” Thaddeus commanded. “That will leave four. I like those odds much better. Alden, be ready.”

Alden nodded, holding his sword in both hands. Thaddeus gave Gunnar a nod, and that was all the large man needed. He hefted his spear, and the thick piece of wood tipped with a razor-sharp iron blade thudded so hard into the soldier’s chest—a tall, lanky man—that he flew backward several feet before crashing into a pile of wooden crates. The commotion caused the two men closest to them—both short, younger men with naught a single hair on their combined chins—to turn, exposing the flesh of their necks. Thaddeus and Gunnar threw their daggers in unison, both blades sinking into their marks. The soldiers clutched at the weapons and gurgled, blood pouring from their mouths as they fell to their knees, life escaping them.

The three men rushed from the shadows. The only Norman that wasn’t distracted by the commotion and killing was the large leader, and he bellowed when he saw Thaddeus and Gunnar and Alden.

“Stop looking at dead men, you sons of whores!” he cried. Then he pointed at Thaddeus. “The enemy is there!”

Thaddeus had completed his Roman training more than eight hundred years before, but it was one of those things that never left him. He had never encountered tuition and practice as thorough and rigid as that of a Roman soldier, let alone his preparation to become a Centurion. Gunnar was brutal and strong and fierce, but Thaddeus was the better fighter, and his skill in battle was second to none. There were many moments in Thaddeus’ life he didn’t feel like he was good at anything, but the one thing he was good at was fighting … and killing.

He easily sidestepped the first soldier that came at him, pushing him aside with his free hand and leaving him for Gunnar. He heard the man’s short scream as he undoubtedly met his demise at the Norseman’s heavy long sword. The next man jabbed his spear at Thaddeus, who spun away, stepped on the spear tip as it dipped, and cut the weapon in two with his sword. Before the Norman could draw his own blade, Thaddeus had knocked his kite shield away with a backhanded swipe of his sword and then brought the tip of his blade across the soldier’s chest. It wasn’t a killing blow, but enough to draw blood and bring the man to one knee, but Thaddeus didn’t finish him. He left that to Gunnar and Alden.

“You fools!” the leader of the Normans cried. “Run and get help! I’ll take care of these three!”

The big man pushed the last soldier away, and the man dropped his spear and ran.

“Alden, follow him,” Thaddeus said. “Make sure he doesn’t reach help.”

Thaddeus heard Alden’s boots behind him, running after the Norman soldier.

The leader drew his long sword and laughed a deep, condescending laugh.

“Saxon filth,” he said. “I’m going to rip your intestines out of your ass before I kill you.”

“Neither one of us are Saxon,” Thaddeus said, the leader surprised when heard Frankish, “and we don’t plan on dying today.”

The large Norman wasn’t nearly as tough as Thaddeus thought he would be. He was a large man and, as he blocked one of his strikes, he could tell he was strong, but it must have been his size and strength that resulted in his promotions because his prowess as a soldier was to be desired. Three hearty swings at Thaddeus visibly wore the man down. Gunnar’s thick blade across his shoulder brought him to his knees. A fist to the face cracked several teeth and brought tears, and Thaddeus’ sword to the back of the man’s neck brought a quick death.

“Set fire to the stables,” Thaddeus commanded. “I’ll put fire to the storerooms.”

Gunnar grabbed a log from the soldiers’ fire, and Thaddeus took one from one of the pyres that lit that part of the city. The hay caught quickly, even in the dampness of the English weather, but the storerooms took considerably more work. By the time they went up in flames, Thaddeus must have stuffed half the wood from the pyres against their sides.

“That ought to do it,” Thaddeus said as both men watched the surrounding buildings burst into flames.

“I hope Asaf is ready to do his part,” Gunnar said, and a faint blue glow towards the southwest part of the city said that he was. “Where is that damn Saxon, Alden?”

And, as if on cue, Alden stepped into the light of the burning buildings, blood smattered across both his face and his sword.

CHAPTER 26

BELLS RANG OUT all over the town of Richmond. Shouting joined the ringing and the three men—Thaddeus, Gunnar, and Alden—had to duck into a short side street and hide in the shadows to avoid Norman soldiers rushing by.

“Do you think all of those soldiers serve the witch?” Alden asked in a whisper.

“Some,” Thaddeus replied.

“It never ceases to amaze me how some men would willingly serve the Devil,” Gunnar added.

“Some men will, unfortunately, be caught in the web that evil creates,” Thaddeus said.

“So, what happens to their souls?” Alden asked.

“If they are right with God,” Thaddeus said, “then they will be with the Lord.”

“I feel bad, in a way,” Alden said.

“It is because you have a compassionate heart,” Gunnar said. “We all feel bad about it. Evil corrupts and hurts and ruins, even those that aren’t naturally evil.”

They made their way back to Chandler Street. The buildings in this area of Richmond were untouched by fire. The blaze spread in the other direction. If Thaddeus squinted, he could see the blue hew of the Lord’s blessing. They found Hugh’s house and knocked. Anson answered the door. Thaddeus breathed a sigh of relief.

“Where is Asaf?” Thaddeus asked.

“In there,” Anson replied, pointing to their one bedroom.

As Thaddeus asked about the defrocked priest, rain began to fall, at first very light, but then heavy.

“Get him, Gunnar. We have to get to the castle,” Thaddeus said. He looked at Jarvis, visibly uncomfortable but ready for a fight with his sword already in his hand. “Are you ready?” The Saxon nodded.

Asaf walked through the doorway, eyes droopy, and sweat beading along his face. His curly, dark hair was matted to the side of his face and, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, it shook.

“Are you ready?” Thaddeus asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” Asaf replied.

Thaddeus turned to Hugh and Hilda and said, “Once again, I thank you for your help. I pray that the Lord blesses you and makes his face shine on you.”

Before either Hugh or Hilda could say anything, the five men ran into the street.

“My lord!” Anson called, and Thaddeus turned around. “Let me go with you.”

“No,” Thaddeus said, walking back to the young man, the rain falling so hard it was already turning the dirt road into mud. “You will one day be a great man, a stalwart patriarch of a thriving family. Right now, you must stay with your parents. Help protect them, and your little sisters and brother. God be with you, Anson. You are the reason we are alive and why we are able to relieve this city from the grips of the Devil.”

Thaddeus turned and joined his companions as they rushed towards Richmond Castle.

As they approached the raised walkway of the castle’s gatehouse, Thaddeus could see the glow of a massive fire raging against the far wall of the city. The commotion had drawn many of the city’s soldiers away from the castle, but a score of guards still stood in front of the entrance, ready and visibly on edge.

“Follow me,” Thaddeus said, as they ran under the shadow of the raised walkway and crouched next to the bottom of the castle’s curtain wall.

As they slinked along the wall, making sure to stay in the shadows, Thaddeus could hear the soldiers along the tops of the wall talking. Some of them blamed the Saxons for the fire, and others blamed castle serfs, while others blamed ghosts. They eventually came to a thick, wooden door that led into the castle’s chapel—it was locked, and such a thick piece of wood would be impossible to break down without a battering ram. Thaddeus laid his hand, palm flat, against the door and immediately retracted it.

“What’s wrong?” Gunnar asked.

“It’s hot,” Thaddeus replied, watching several blisters rising on his palm.

Asaf walked up to the door, putting his face close and careful not to touch it. He sniffed at the wood.

“Evil,” Asaf said flatly.

“It’s a chapel,” Jarvis said. “It’s a house of the Lord.”

Asaf just shrugged. He leaned in close to the door again.

“Great evil,” Asaf confirmed.

“Is it locked?” Gunnar asked.

“Of course it is,” Jarvis said, but when Asaf pushed on the door, it opened with ease.

“She knows we’re here,” Asaf said.

“Would you expect anything less?” Thaddeus asked.

The chapel was dark and small. A dozen short pews formed two columns of seats. At the front was a wide dais and an altar stood at the back of the dais. Another thick door stood to the side of the altar. Thaddeus curled his nose.

“Christ’s bones,” Asaf said, covering his nose with his arm.

“What is it?” Jarvis asked.

“The smell,” Asaf replied. “Don’t you bloody smell it?”

“It’s demon stink,” Thaddeus said.

“I think I smell it too,” Alden said.

Then, as they stepped into the chapel, they all crossed themselves. Hanging above the altar was a large cross, upside down and with the body of a man who, with his tattered robes and tonsure, looked to once be a priest. Blood stained the carpet that ran in between the two columns of pews. Another body lay on the altar, eviscerated and opened, flesh clinging to exposed ribs. Thaddeus couldn’t quite see the face of whoever the victim was, but his hands were frozen in a position of clutching fists. One of the two stained glass windows in the chapel sat broken, high in the wall, and someone had vandalized the other one, painting a pentagram on it in what looked like blood, now dried and brown and flaky.

Two candles, one on either side of the dais, held by iron sconces, lit as they entered the room, and at the same time, the body lying on the altar burst into flames, giving the room a little more light. Black smoke trailed underneath the pews and around the legs of each of the warriors, accompanied by the sound of sucking air. The smoked settled in front of the altar on the dais and rose up into a column. As the smoke dissipated, a woman stood there, naked and perfect … almost perfect.

It had been many years since Thaddeus had seen a succubus, and her presence here in Richmond meant this was more than a simple witch—albeit one of the most powerful witches he had ever encountered—trying to control weak-minded men. Succubae, at times, just grew bored of the underworld and appeared to simply toy with men, or to lay with one in order to become pregnant, but this one, offering up human sacrifices to the Devil in a chapel of the Lord, meant something much more ominous. The enemy had a special interest in this place, and the revelation sent gooseflesh along Thaddeus’ arms.

“Is that a …” Gunnar had begun to say.

Thaddeus hadn’t known the Norseman had never seen a succubus, and then he realized that it had been over two hundred years since he had seen one. When was the last time? He and Asaf were in the lands now known as Rus, and she had enchanted a Byzantine monk, trying to get him to impregnate her.

“She’s beautiful,” Jarvis said, stepping forward.

“By Christ and all the angels, she stinks,” Asaf said at the same moment.

It might have been impossible for Thaddeus, Gunnar, or Asaf to fall under a succubus’ enchantment, but Jarvis and Alden were simple men and young ones at that. They didn’t see the little horns poking through her dark hair, falling down the middle of her back, or silhouetting her perfect breasts. They didn’t see the long claws that should have been toes or fingers. And when she opened her mouth and licked her lips, they didn’t see her long, forked tongue. Jarvis, walking towards her, was under her spell, and Alden, swaying back and forth, eyes half closed and arms slack by his side, would soon follow.

The succubus touched her sex and moaned and then caressed her breasts, moaning even louder. Jarvis unfastened his buckle, letting his sword drop to the ground.

“Come to me,” the succubus said in a soft, erotically seductive voice, letting her head fall back slightly and closing her eyes as if she was in the midst of sexual climax. “Be with me. I want you.”

“Jarvis!” Thaddeus yelled. “No!”

He ran to Jarvis and grabbed his shoulder. The man turned and swatted Thaddeus’ hand away with more strength than he should have had, but at the same moment, the succubus looked to Thaddeus, her eyes turning red and cat-like. Great, black, bat wings sprouted from her back, spreading the width of the small chapel, and she clutched her clawed hands in rage as she hissed and then screamed something in her infernal language. With one great flap of her wings, a wind pushed Thaddeus backward, throwing him to the ground and lifting her into the air at the same time. She hovered there, a long, spiked tail emerging from her lower back.

Jarvis screamed as she hovered over him, looking down upon him like he was some insect. His trance had dissolved, her hold weak as she revealed her true self. But as he turned to run, her tail whipped out and caught him in his belly. Piercing him completely, her tail lifted him so that he was face to face with her.

“Asaf,” Thaddeus said, getting to his feet, and Asaf retrieved his Bible, opened it, and began reading.

The succubus screamed and slashed Jarvis’ throat with her claws. Blood poured from his wound and, with the simple flick of her tail, she threw him into a pew, the wood splitting, and Jarvis lay there, broken and dead. She began chanting again, and the burning body on the altar rolled over and fell to the ground. The flames flared, the heat so intense, Thaddeus could feel it against his face. In seconds, the fire died away, leaving only a mound of black ash. But the ash began to move and shift and rise until it formed the shape of a human. With a flash of bright light, the ash turned into a goat-man, with the head, legs, and hooves of a black-haired goat and the body and arms of a man. The creature’s black horns curled and shimmered in the dim candlelight. It wore a hauberk of black iron and carried a two-handed poleaxe, its blade long and wide in the shape of a half moon, its shaft tipped with a spike of the same black iron. The goat-man bleated, its voice that of a goat, but deeper and gruffer. It lifted its poleaxe and brought it down on a pew, splitting the bench in half.

The Bible clenched so tightly in his hands the knuckles had turned white, Asaf read from the Book of Isaiah, speaking in Hebrew as the succubus swung her tail about, stabbing at the warriors and cracking pews in half, and as the goat-man attacked, Alden stepped forward first and was saved only by the Grace of God that the backhanded swing of the goat-man struck the Saxon with the broad side of the half-moon blade, sending Alden into the wall. Thaddeus couldn’t get close enough with his sword, first ducking under the succubus’ tail and then leaning back as the tip of the poleaxe’s spike almost caught his throat.

As Asaf read the Word of God, the succubus hissed, and the goat-man screamed, leaping up onto the back of one pew. The succubus clapped her hands together and, when she separated them, a ball of fire appeared. She pushed it towards Asaf, but he didn’t even seem to notice, and when the fire should have consumed him, it broke up against an invisible force, splashing onto the carpet and surrounding pews, catching them ablaze. The demon hissed even louder. Her tail rattled, the tip opening as if it had its own mouth, and spitting forth a dozen, small barbs. Some of them bounced harmlessly off Asaf’s force field, Gunnar dodged several others, but two of them struck Thaddeus in the leg, lodging themselves deep in his flesh. He cried out, pulling them away, but where they had struck, he felt a stinging pain and burning sensation.

Thaddeus tried to run underneath the succubus, but another swing from the goat-man’s poleaxe caused him to roll away and, as he came to his feet, the succubus tried to breathe fire down on him. He crawled underneath a pew, the wood above him aflame. He stood quickly, pushing the pew up and into the succubus. She floated backward, another flap of her bat wings pushing the warrior to his knees. At the same time, Gunnar threw his spear at the goat-man, striking the infernal creature square in the chest. It didn’t seem to harm it much, but it gave him enough time to draw his large long sword, step on the shaft of the poleaxe, and break it with his heavy blade.

As if drawn from the air, the goat-man drew a curved blade—a khopesh—and attacked Gunnar. The big man easily swatted away the creature’s attacks, returning strikes with his own weapon, cutting deep into the minion’s flesh and drawing a black, sticky ichor for blood. The succubus swung her tail at Gunnar, the tip grazing his shoulder, but it wasn’t enough to stop the warrior’s assault. Alden got back to his feet and, sneaking behind the goat-man, plunged his sword into its back. It screamed and reached back at the Saxon, leaving its chest open to Gunnar. The Norseman cleaved the goat in two, from one shoulder to the opposite hip, and as the creature’s torso slid away, the goat-man turned back into ash.

The demon clapped her hands together again, this time causing the floor underneath the warriors to roll. Everyone went to the ground, save for Asaf who stood firm and continued to read, now from Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. She muttered a few words, and the candles flared into glaring torches. The altar burst into flames as did the cross bearing the crucified priest. The cross fell to the ground, and the dead priest turned to a pile of ash, which began to rise and take the shape of another goat minion. As that happened, lightning erupted from the succubus’ fingertips, cracking stone, igniting pews, and shattering the remaining stained-glass window.

Gunnar stood to his feet, ducking a swinging demon tail, and retrieving his spear from the ashy remains of the first goat-man. He took aim, and the demon laughed. But Asaf finished his reading, shut his Bible hard, and closed his eyes.

“The Lord is sovereign, even over the creatures of the deep,” Asaf prayed and then crossed himself before he calmly stood, ramrod straight, with his arms by his sides.

As if the defrocked priest was, himself, a candle, a white light flared around him, and the succubus screamed, covering her eyes. At that moment, Gunnar threw his spear. The thick blade pierced the demon’s breast and drove straight to her heart. She screamed even louder and hissed, her spittle sizzling as it fell to the floor. The shaft of the spear exploded into a thousand pieces, and the blade slipped from the demon’s breast, but the damage had already been done. In another flash of blinding light, the succubus burst into a rain of slowly falling pieces of skin, and the minion that had been forming fell to the ground, again nothing more than a mound of ash.

“I can’t see,” Alden cried.

Gunnar helped the Saxon to his feet as the young man rubbed his eyes. Asaf put a hand—albeit shaky and clammy—to the man’s forehead.

“It is only temporary,” Asaf said. “The flash from the dismissed demon blinded you, but your sight will return.”

“Dismissed?” Gunnar asked.

“A powerful demon like a succubus cannot be simply killed with human weapons,” Thaddeus explained. “You sent her back to hell, and it will be a while before that one will be able to infest our world again, but you did not kill her.”

“Poor Jarvis,” Gunnar said.

“He should’ve stayed with Hugh and Hilda,” Thaddeus said.

“The Lord welcome him,” Asaf prayed, “for he died in service to our Lord and with a clean heart.”

“What do we do about this place?” Gunnar asked. “A defiled church. I’ve never seen such a thing.”

“I have,” Thaddeus replied, “several times. It makes the skin crawl. Pray for this place, Asaf, and then let it burn.”

“And Alden?” Gunnar asked as the Saxon whimpered and rubbed his eyes.

“If his sight will return,” Thaddeus said, “we simply watch him. We can’t send him back to Hugh’s. I pray his eyesight returns sooner than later.”

The wooden pews and rug were already aflame, and it was spreading quickly while Asaf muttered a short prayer. When he had finished, the four made for the door behind what used to be the altar and found it led to a small enclosure within the castle. The voices they had heard talking along the tops of the wall were gone, and they walked through the dark enclosure to another door in a wall that opened into the main courtyard, the tall keep looming over them and an unnatural darkness consuming the space between them and the main keep of Castle Richmond.

CHAPTER 27

T  HADDEUS KNEW GETTING across the seemingly vacant and quiet courtyard would not be a simple task, and he was soon proved right. As they raced through the open and dark space, shapes rose up from the ground. Four goat-men, also armed with poleaxes, stood in their way. One swung its weapon and barely missed Thaddeus, the Greek rolling backward and coming up into a crouch, sword in hand. The faint, blue light of his blade illuminated the space around them, but barely.

“I can’t see,” Gunnar said.

“Asaf,” Thaddeus said.

Asaf muttered something incomprehensible and what looked like three stars flashed in the sky and fell. Several cries and screams rose up from the tops of the castle walls as soldiers watched the falling stars. Some cursed, while others prayed. The falling light finally reached the earth, striking the ground inside the courtyard and, wherever they struck, a pillar of fire erupted, shedding bright light on the whole of the space. The goat minions screamed and stepped away from the warriors. Rain began to fall, but no amount of water could quench the Lord’s fire.

“Bitch,” Asaf muttered.

One goat-man attacked, swinging hard at Thaddeus. He easily stepped away from the unwieldy weapon, bringing his sword up and into the creature’s armpit. It screamed, releasing its poleaxe and drawing a khopesh while another one jabbed with the spike stop its poleaxe. Gunnar left Alden next to Asaf with a barked instruction not to move and jumped into the fight, back to back with Thaddeus.

The goat-man wielding the curved blade came at Thaddeus, but these were mindless creatures of the abyss, formed from death and ash. Again, Thaddeus easily parried the creature’s attack while Gunnar engaged the other minion. With a heavy grunt, Thaddeus cleaved the goat head from the human body, and the thing fell away as ash. In the same moment, the Norseman chopped downwards, striking his goat-man atop the head and splitting the evil minion in two and, like its companion, it disappeared into ash.

The other two rushed Thaddeus, and as they did, illuminated by the Lord’s pillars of fire, he could hear the soldiers atop the walls—at least, the ones who didn’t run in fear—continue to curse and pray at the sight of the Devil’s soldiers. The sudden onslaught of two rushing goat-men pushed Thaddeus back, but Gunnar moved away and in behind one of them and cut its leg off at the hip. The creature didn’t seem to notice, hobbling on until the Norseman ran it through, turning it back to ash and leaving just one remaining demon spawn. Thaddeus made short work of it and, when he looked up at the walls, he saw the soldiers up there, no longer speaking, but simply looking on in awe and horror.

“May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you,” Thaddeus prayed, making the sign of the cross, “and may the Lord lift up His countenance upon you and give you peace, in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.”

As Thaddeus finished his benediction, the soldiers looking down on them lay down, and he knew they slept, and what they saw this night would simply be a vague dream, slowly forgotten over time. The hold of evil over them had been released, and Thaddeus was buoyed by it.

“To the keep, quickly,” he said, but as they made their way to the thick, oak door of the keep, Asaf stumbled and fell to his knees.

His face turned a pallid color, and blood trickled from one of his nostrils. He looked as if he struggled to keep his eyes open, and his breathing became labored and heavy. He slumped forward and rested on his knuckles.

“I’m worn thin, Thaddeus,” Asaf said, “like a morsel of butter spread over too many loaves of bread.”

“I know,” Thaddeus replied. “It is almost done my friend, and then we can rest for a while.”

“I’m not so sure the Lord will let us rest for that long,” Asaf said with as much of a smile as he could muster.

“Remember …” Thaddeus began, but Asaf cut him off, pushing off on a knee to stand up.

“Yoke and burdens and all that,” Asaf said with a wave of his hand. “I’ve been with you for too long, Thaddeus. I know what you are going to say, even if you don’t believe it. Let’s go and finish this thing.”

When Thaddeus opened the thick door, the columns of fire behind them cast long shadows into the otherwise dark first floor of the keep. Thaddeus entered first, followed by Asaf and then by Gunnar, leading a still blinded Alden. As soon as all four were in the room, the door behind them slammed shut, and the iron sconces lining the walls blazed even though they held no candles or torches. The stairway leading to the banquet hall and beyond sat on the far side of the room. Two ogres stood in front of the stairway, large brutes almost twice the height of a man and with grayish-green skin. Both of them had sloping brows and wild hair, beards, and eyebrows reddish in color, growing in all directions. They both had large bellies that hung sloppily over their belts and slouching shoulders. Large fangs, yellow and crooked rose from their bottom jaw, causing each one to have a severe under bite and curling their upper lips.

The first, carrying a large club studded with rusted, iron nails, leaned forward and roared, spittle flying from its mouth. The second, wielding a large, double-headed ax, laughed and said something to the other, which in turn caused it to laugh.

The ogre with the club rushed Thaddeus and, even though the man was ready, the speed of the ogre belied its size, and it backhanded the Greek, throwing him into the far wall. Thaddeus slammed against the stone with a thud and felt his consciousness wane. It then swung its club at Gunnar, the Norseman ducking and rolling out of the way. Alden, even though he couldn’t see, held his sword with both hands and stood in front of Asaf. This caused the ogres to laugh even more.

The axe-wielding ogre came at Gunnar and attacked wildly, the blade of its ax thunking into the stone floor, sending chunks into the air. Gunnar had no choice but to back up. He was as strong a man as Thaddeus had ever seen, standing a giant over most men and putting even the bravest of men to shame, but he looked like a little child next to this monster.

“Asaf!” Thaddeus yelled, standing up with the help of the wall.

“This will be the last of it,” Asaf said. “I’ll be useless for a while.”

“There may be nothing after this if you don’t act now,” Thaddeus said.

Asaf nodded, closed his eyes, and lifted his hands.

“Lord, as you helped the Nazarite Samson, despite his many sins against you, I pray that you help us.”

As soon as Asaf had finished his prayer, the room began to shake, and just as the club-wielding ogre was about to reach Alden and crush the blind man, the ceiling above it cracked and split open, spilling stone and timber down upon the monster, until the mound of rubble almost reached to where the ceiling once was.

The commotion caught the attention of the other ogre, and that was all the time Gunnar needed. The ogre had pressed him against the wall, and the Norseman reached up and gripped a tapestry hanging there, one depicting the noble symbol of the Tréguiers. Pulling it from its hooks, he threw it over the ogre’s head. The monster roared, and as it swung its ax wildly, Gunnar pulled one of the iron sconces from the wall. Ignoring the flame as it burned his hands and forearms, he threw the sconce at the tapestry-wrapped ogre, and the thread caught fire.

The monster’s roars turned to pain-filled screams as the burning tapestry consumed it. Even as the ogre was finally able to throw the last of the burning threads off of it, it had caught fire, its greenish skin turning black and cracking, its blood spilling through the wounds and boiling as it touched the fire. The ogre flailed about, an errant hand catching Gunnar in the chest and throwing him hard against the stone. The man’s body slumped to the ground, unmoving. The beast clutched at its face, trying to extinguish the flames, but rather clawed away flesh until it exposed his muscle and then bone, before finally falling face forward, dead.

Thaddeus ran to Gunnar, the Norseman’s breath slow, blood pouring from the side of his head. As he inspected his friend, the whole keep shook, and the sconces flared and then dimmed to little more than burning embers.

“Go!” Asaf yelled, kneeling and wrapping his arms around his body, shivering as if he were stuck in a blizzard. “I’ll stay with Gunnar.”

“I’ll go with you,” Alden said. “My eyesight is starting to return.”

“Very well,” Thaddeus said, standing and looking down at Gunnar, his stomach knotting with worry.

Thaddeus and Alden ran up the circular stairs, stopping when they heard the sound of someone—or something—clearing its throat.

“Imp,” Thaddeus said, and as soon as he spoke, fiery spittle flew against the wall from behind the curve in the staircase.

The little demon fluttered around the corner, struggling to stay afloat with its tiny wings. When it came into view, it had barely a moment to react. Thaddeus brought his blade down on the diminutive minion, and it collapsed onto the stairs, a flaming mass of skin and flesh.

The stairs opened into the banquet hall, where four Norman soldiers stood, an imp sitting on each of their shoulders.

“So many demons,” Thaddeus muttered, “something big is supposed to happen here.”

Alden groaned.

“Can you fight?” Thaddeus asked.

“I can try,” Alden confessed.

“Let me go first,” Thaddeus said, “but watch my back as best you can.”

The first soldier came at Thaddeus, jabbing a spear at him as his imp spat fire. Thaddeus side-stepped the attack, gripped his sword with both hands, and brought it up against the shaft of the spear. The weapon shot up and into the soldier’s face. He stumbled back a few steps, and Thaddeus brought the tip of his blade across the man’s belly. He collapsed to the ground, his imp caught underneath him. Thaddeus stomped down hard on the dead soldier’s chest, and a quick squeal, sizzle, and blood flowing from underneath the man said the demon was gone as well.

As the second soldier came at Thaddeus, he lifted his sword. The faint blueness of the steel, present ever since Wufgar had blessed the weapon, flared to a blinding brightness. The imp squealed and burst into flames, catching the padded cloth shirt of the soldier afire. The other two Normans pushed the burning man aside and attacked, their imps fluttering above their heads and haphazardly spitting fire at Thaddeus.

The impish attacks would have been easy enough to avoid, but accompanied by the soldiers, they proved to be imposing foes, and Thaddeus felt the sting of fire several times on his skin. His steel to one of the men’s throat brought that soldier down, and when his imp got too close, Thaddeus swatted it to the ground with the broad side of his sword and then crushed it with his boot. The last soldier rushed him, but Thaddeus dodged the man’s spear attack, grabbed his shoulder, and pushed him towards Alden. He could tell the Saxon was still struggling to see as he stumbled to catch the Norman soldier, inadvertently tripping the man. The soldier fell awkwardly down the stairs, and as he tumbled, Thaddeus heard the sound of bone cracking and the Norman lay still, his neck at an odd angle to his spine. Thaddeus chased the pathetic creature about the room for a few moments before he easily dispatched it. Its wings could only carry it so high and far, and it eventually relented almost willingly to let the warrior cleave it in two.

“Let’s go,” Thaddeus said, grabbing Alden’s arm and leading him up the stairs.

The building shook again, and both Thaddeus and Alden had to brace themselves against the wall. Laughter echoed through the hallway as they climbed to the last floor of the keep, the Count’s quarters.

“You are a pathetic fool,” came the voice of the witch from above them.

They reached the door to the Count’s room, and Thaddeus kicked it open and rushed in. The Count lay on his bed, stripped naked, his arms and legs drawn taut by rope tied to the bedposts. A man and two women stood next to the bed—Renata and what Thaddeus assumed to be another witch, and a warlock.

“This is beyond you.” Renata laughed. “You are a tiny man and a pathetic fool.”

“The Lord is too strong for you,” Thaddeus said. “We’ve dispatched your demons and your minions.”

“Pittance,” Renata said, still laughing. “All in due time, we will prove how weak your Lord truly is.”

“And Brant, that poor excuse of a man,” Thaddeus said, “he is dead as well.”

“That’s too bad,” Renata said with a smile. “I liked him. He was fun. But I knew his time would be short. He was vain and stupid and too eager. You and your Lord are weak … and you’re growing weaker.”

“The one you serve is His footstool,” Thaddeus said.

“You will be our footstool,” the warlock hissed, a tall, thin man, black hair pulled back into a tail and his pale, hairless face handsome and smooth.

His robes, red and black and silver, spilled down from his shoulders, and as he pointed an accusatory finger at Thaddeus, it barely poked out from the sleeves.

“Love and compassion are a weakness,” Renata said, putting a gentle hand on the warlock’s and lowering his. “Soon, you will see the full might of the one I serve.”

“Why not now?” Thaddeus asked.

“Soon enough,” Renata replied.

“You think I am so pathetic,” Thaddeus goaded, “why not take me now?”

“Nothing would make me happier,” Renata replied and loosely waved a hand.

The sky outside the Count’s window, a wide arched opening in the wall, began to light up as the sun appeared to rise. Thaddeus saw a bright flash of red light and could see a black horse hovering in the air, just outside the window. The horse snorted, bellowing flames from its nostrils, and black wings sprouted from its shoulders, and red orbs sat where eyes should have been. As if Thaddeus needed any more proof, the ability to generate such a creature meant Renata was very powerful, and he wondered if she actually did hold a special place in the Devil’s court.

“Galen,” Renata said, patting the warlock’s shoulder, “take Vivian. Go tell the others to be ready. I will be coming soon.”

“Renata ...” Galen hesitated, worry evident in his expression.

“Do not worry,” Renata said, touching his face, “I will be fine. This man thinks he is strong ...” She gave Thaddeus a fleeting glance. “... but he is weak and pathetic.”

Galen and Vivian stepped out the window. The warlock took the reins of the black, flying horse, Vivian clinging to his waist, and turned the creature around. Its wings flapped, sending a hot wind into the room that swirled about the bed and knocking vases off their pedestals and tapestries off the wall.

Renata laughed.

“Today is the day your service to your Lord ends,” Renata said with a malicious smile, “and your service to my lord begins.”

Thaddeus cocked an eyebrow.

“I am not going to kill you, Thaddeus,” Renata said, “at least, not yet. No, you are too strong, and you look like so much fun. Subduing, you will be one of my greatest victories. I will be a champion—a general—in Lucifer’s armies for such a feat. And I will make you my slave. You will fight for me. You will kill for me. You will lie with me and please me.”

Renata bit her lower lip, excited about her promises.

“Have fun burning for all eternity,” Thaddeus said as he moved forward.

Renata threw her head back and laughed, but, as she dropped her head, she flicked her wrist, and three small darts shot through the air towards Thaddeus’ face. He dodged them only to find three more coming at him. He rolled backward.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” he said.

Renata laughed. She pulled at the collar of her dress, revealing more of her chest and cleavage. She revealed a pendant, sown into her skin and flesh. It was a snake made of black iron. It began to glow red. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, they were also red. She called out in the language of demons, her voice shaking the room, rubble spilling from the ceiling. Thaddeus attacked, swinging his blessed sword twice, but each time the sword should have struck Renata, the steel bounced away, striking some invisible force. She pushed one hand out and the air struck Thaddeus in the chest, and he reeled backward. He could hear Alden scuffling behind him. When he stood, Renata recited another incantation, and Thaddeus found himself unable to move. He couldn’t see Alden, but the scuffling of his feet stopped, and he presumed him to be frozen as well.

The witch laughed even harder.

“Before I enslave you and this Saxon scum,” she said, picking at one of her fingernails and walking towards Thaddeus, “you should know that the darkness already spreading over this land will only increase. The rivers will run red with blood, the skies will darken, and fire will rain down. The people of this land will be the first to bend the knee to my master, and your God can do nothing about it.”

The witch retrieved a flamberge knife from her belt. She inspected it for a moment and then she kissed the blade. It glowed a faint orange.

“Your friend won’t die just yet,” Renata said. “The poison in this blade will kill him slowly … painfully, and then it will reanimate him. He will be my puppet, doing my bidding. Maybe I will give him to Betrix. And you? When I enslave you, the first thing I think I will have you do is kill that prick Wulfstan and that pompous prince, Harold. Yes, that sounds good. And then I will send your Saxon puppet here to kill William Rufus. A Saxon killing the Norman king … that should cause the kind of rebellion we want. And then maybe I’ll have him kill Malcolm the Scot. Death. Blood. Despair.”

She lifted the knife, a look of ecstasy on her face. Thaddeus heard the shuffling of boots and the scraping of steel behind him.

“No,” the witch said, her eyes wide and her knife out in front of her, ready to fight, wavered momentarily. “How?”

Just then, Thaddeus’ blade, gleaming as bright a blue he had ever seen it glow, came down on the witch’s shoulder. Blood exploded from the wound as Renata fell to the ground. She tried casting a spell on Alden, who stood over her, but as she spoke, the blade glowed brighter and brighter, and she screamed in pain. Alden hefted the blade down again, removing the witch’s head. As soon as life had left the body, it burst into flames that quickly melted the skin and bone into a thick, black mass like bubbling tar. The heat, at first, was intense, and the demon stink increased until the floor in the room began to tremble. Then, the black substance began to seep into the stone, and when it was gone, the room merely smelled of candles and wall sconces.

As feeling returned to Thaddeus’ limbs again, he collapsed to the floor, and Alden sat him up, holding him so he wouldn’t fall back again.

“How?” Thaddeus asked.

“My eyes,” Alden said. “I felt frozen, but only for a moment. I think because I could only see a silhouette of the witch, her spell didn’t really have an effect on me. When she started talking, I pretended to be frozen, and when she turned her attention fully on you, I grabbed your sword. I didn’t think it would work, but as soon as I touched your sword, my eyesight returned, and when she started casting a spell, I felt a tingling in my arms and knew her charms wouldn’t work against me. It was very odd.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Thaddeus said with a short laugh, and then he looked to the spot on the floor where the witch had disappeared. “So much for a weak Lord.”

They heard coughing, and Alden stood, Thaddeus’ sword gripped in his hand. But it was the Count. He shook his head and gently pulled at his restraints.

“What, by Christ and His angels, is going on here? And who are you?”

CHAPTER 28

T  HADDEUS DRAPED A ROBE around the Count’s shoulders, and while he was tending to Stephen, Alden descended to the first floor to retrieve Gunnar and Asaf. The Count looked bewildered most of the time, sweaty and pale, his skin cold to the touch one moment and then hot the next. He spit out the first couple of sips of water he took and, as the sun began to rise and dispel the night, he seemed wary of the light, almost shying away from it.

“We need to get some food in you, my lord,” Thaddeus said. “Who knows how long it has been since you’ve actually eaten.”

“I don’t understand,” the Count said. “The last thing I remember is that Flemish noblewoman, Renata, trying to worm her way into my bed.”

Count Stephen took a hearty sip of water and ate a bit of bread Asaf had brought him.

“My oldest brother, Alan Rufus, recently passed,” Stephen explained, “and while my other brother, Alan Niger, made his way from Normandy to assume control of Richmond, I was tasked with watching his estates. I love my wife, Hawise, and when that woman tried to lay with me, I told her no. That’s the last thing I remember.”

“What was she doing here?” Thaddeus asked.

“I don’t know, really,” Stephen replied. “She came with a royal decree from William himself asking that we let her stay here. It seemed a mystery to me, with all the issues with Malcolm and the Scots so near, but who am I to question the King?”

“And you knew nothing of the crucifixions and the torture of the people you rule?” Asaf asked. He truly hadn’t recovered yet, his skin as pale as Count Stephen’s and his breathing still labored, but he pressed the nobleman.

“No,” Stephen replied, straightening his back and posturing a bit. “These people—the Saxons—they are as close to me as the Normans are. I am a Breton after all. My ancestors trace their roots to England, even before the Saxons came. My family has no disdain for these people, as long as they follow the King’s laws. I cannot believe this has happened. What will the King think?”

Stephen rubbed his neck suggestively.

“What will he do?”

“I don’t think the King knows,” Thaddeus offered, “and I don’t think he will know. This witch had him in her clutches almost as much as she had you.”

“A witch could do all this?” The Count sighed, shaking his head. “There must be some other explanation.”

“How do you explain not remembering the last several months of your life?” Gunnar asked. “There is no other answer. You were under the evil embrace of the witch.”

“Which means you were under the evil embrace of the Devil,” Asaf added, his voice flat and hard.

Count Stephen crossed himself.

“And how is it you came to dispatch this … this witch?” Stephen asked, still looking unsure of the prospect of having been under the influence of a witch.

“We are soldiers,” Thaddeus explained, “warriors for God. This is what we do, and as hard as it may be to believe, we have seen far worse than a witch. However, this is perhaps the most powerful witch I had come across.”

“It is a good thing my wife and children are still in Brittany,” Stephen said, rubbing his face.

“A very good thing,” Thaddeus said. “Renata probably would have killed them.”

“Do you have any daughters?” Asaf asked.

“One,” Stephen replied.

“She would have turned her,” the defrocked priest said.

“Asaf,” Thaddeus scolded, to which the priest simply shrugged.

“And you,” Stephen said, looking at Alden, “you are a serf in Richmondshire?”

“No, my lord,” Alden replied. “I am … was a hearthguard for the Saxon people.”

“A traitor,” Stephen said, straightening again, his turn to flatten his voice.

“Depends on how you look at it, my lord,” Alden replied. “For a while, I saw myself as a liberator. Now … I don’t know.”

“Where do your allegiances lie now?” Stephen asked.

“For now,” Alden replied, “they lie with the Lord our God. You are a good man, and your family has been good to my people. That is all that matters to me.”

“That is good enough for me,” Stephen said, “for now. You must understand, there is no hope for any Saxon to ever retake England. It is time to relent and let healing begin.”

“I would say the same for you,” Thaddeus said.

Stephen nodded with a slight smile.

“I suppose I owe you an apology,” Stephen said, looking at Alden and looking down at his bed sheets, which covered his legs. “I … my family is known for our compassion and generosity, not just in Brittany, but here, in Richmond. The people have served me well—the Normans who came with us, the Saxons, even some of the Scots that inhabit these lands. And we have had bountiful harvests.”

“You will again,” Thaddeus said, “as the witch’s grip on this place wanes. It will take some time for the land to heal, but it will.”

“What about the people?” Stephen asked. “They will never trust me or my family again.”

“If you give your word, as a follower of Christ, that you will protect these people, make recompense for the wrongs done to them, and treat them fairly,” Thaddeus said, “we will help explain to your people what happened here.”

“You mean to tell them a witch enchanted me and killed the ones they loved?” Stephen asked with wide eyes. “You mean to tell them that the Devil was here, in this place? Then they will never trust us.”

“No, we cannot tell them all that,” Thaddeus said.

“So, you mean to lie to these people?” Asaf asked.

“No, my friend,” Thaddeus replied with a smile, “we will not lie to them. We will tell them as much truth as we dare and leave it at that.”

“What do we tell them, then?” Gunnar asked.

“We will tell them that Count Stephen took ill … a very serious illness,” Thaddeus explained. “We will tell them that another noble stepped in as a favor to the King and that she became power hungry. We will say that the King then banished her from these lands and has agreed to repay for lost life and property. This will help William Rufus as well, although I do not know if he cares.”

“He does,” Stephen said. “At least, he cares for Yorkshire. It is wealthy and a barrier between his lands and the Scots. It is a good plan. And my family is very wealthy. I can pay the recompense.”

“You must also persecute those soldiers who willingly committed atrocities against your people,” Thaddeus said.

“But they are Normans,” Stephen retorted.

“Do you want these people to trust you?” Asaf asked, his voice hard and cold.

“Many of your soldiers thought they were following your orders, and you cannot hold them to that,” Thaddeus said, “but there were others who followed the witch, and willingly. Remember, Norman or not, they aligned themselves with the Devil. That, alone, deserves death. And then add the brutalities they committed.”

“It will be done,” Stephen said. “I still have my reservations about what happened here, but I know it was something tragic, and I know you men are to be thanked for my rescue and that of my family’s lands. You are always welcome here. If you are ever in need, whether you are in Normandy, Brittany, or England, you need not hesitate to ask.”

The Count extended his hand, and in turn, all four men shook it.

†

SEVERAL DAYS LATER, having continued to both advise the Count and to initially protect him as word spread about what had supposedly been happening, Thaddeus, Asaf, Gunnar, and Alden made their way through the streets of Richmond. The mood of the people had altered. They heard laughter and saw smiles as children played, and adults went about their daily tasks. As they turned a corner heading towards the exit of the city, two familiar figures stood up from a stone bench.

“Hugh, what are you doing here?” Thaddeus asked.

“We waited for you. We came to thank you one more time,” Hugh replied.

“It is the Lord’s work,” Thaddeus said, “not ours. Thank Him.”

“We do,” Hugh said, “daily.”

“Thank you for believing in me,” Anson said.

“You believed in yourself,” Gunnar said, “and you believed in the strength and courage the Lord has given you.”

“Your home is untouched by fire?” Thaddeus asked.

“It is,” Hugh replied. “Most of our homes were untouched. How, I don’t know …”

“Never underestimate the blessings of the Almighty,” Thaddeus said with a smile.

Hugh handed Thaddeus a sack.

“For the road. It’s the least we can do.”

“Thank you,” Thaddeus said. “May the Lord bless you and give you peace.”

“Pax Cristo,” Anson said.

“Pax Cristo,” Thaddeus replied, and they said their goodbyes.

As they left the city of Richmond, the crucified that lined the road had been replaced by gallows. More than twenty Norman soldiers hung there, hands tied behind their backs, bodies stripped of all but their undergarments, and faces bruised. Stephen had wanted to burn them at first, and the people of Richmond had wanted to torture them, but the Count decided hanging would be enough, lest he look like the witch and her evil ways.

“Does the sky seem brighter to you?” Alden asked as they rode south towards Chesterfield.

“It’s cloudy and rainy,” Asaf replied, grumbling and groaning as he spoke.

“I know,” Alden said, “but the sky still seems a little brighter.”

“No one realizes what affect evil has on a place,” Thaddeus explained, “until it has infected it and then been cleansed away. Yes, the sky seems brighter. Look at the grass, it is already greener, and we are seeing more wildlife, hearing birds singing to praise God’s creation. Evil is losing its grip on this place.”

“Evil or no,” Asaf grumbled, “I can’t wait to get away from this wet and dreary place.”

“Perhaps the Lord needs us to stay here,” Thaddeus said, his smile evident in his voice.

“For the next couple of hundred years,” Gunnar added and, even though the look on Alden’s face said he had no clue what they were talking about, Thaddeus and the Norseman laughed.

“God be good,” Asaf exclaimed. “That in itself would be a curse above all other curses,” but the defrocked priest managed to crack a smile.

“This is my homeland, you know,” Alden said, his mouth flat and his eyebrows furled.

“And I will not hold that against you, my friend,” Asaf replied.

“It’s all right,” Gunnar said. “Sweden is much the same.”

He slapped Alden on the shoulder as they rode next to one another.

“And there you have it,” Asaf said, “the reason why both of you are so dimwitted.”

“Oh ho!” Gunnar cried before Alden could say anything, “the grumpy cur makes a joke. Evil has surely lost its grip on this place.”

Thaddeus laughed, as did Asaf.

“Maybe one day, Alden,” Thaddeus said, “I will take you to Rome … or the Holy Land. There, you will see the sun shining in all its glory and a land that has truly been kissed by the lips of Jesus.”

“You would do that?” Alden asked. “You would take me to Rome?”

“Agh!” Asaf cried. “Everyone is always so excited about Rome. We say Holy Land, and it means nothing to this youngster, but mention Rome, and the world stops.”

“It’s where the pope resides,” Alden said.

“Is it now?” Asaf replied, his voice rich with cynicism. “And what about the land of milk and honey, the land where our Lord Jesus walked and breathed and broke bread? Does that mean nothing to you?”

Alden didn’t say anything. He just stared at Asaf, eyes wide and mouth open.

“This generation,” Asaf huffed, throwing his hands into the air. “I would trade all the supposed wonders of Rome for the simple brilliance of Jerusalem.”

“Don’t mind him,” Gunnar said. “You should know by now that under all of his self-loathing, he thinks rather highly of himself and his homeland.”

“He is from the Holy Land?” Alden asked.

“That he is,” Gunnar replied.

The absence of evil in England became more evident as they rode closer to Chesterfield. Despite the rain and clouds, primroses and anemones and ferns were popping up everywhere. The grass looked lusher, and the birds’ songs sounded sweeter. Passing small villages, the people didn’t scurry into their homes, afraid of strange passersby. And, finally, as they reached the lands of Derbyshire, they could hear the bells of All Saints church ringing.

CHAPTER 29

T  HADDEUS, ASAF, GUNNAR, AND ALDEN sat in a large room in a manor house of the Lord of Chesterfield. The lord wasn’t there, an effort to save himself from any accusation of treason, but being sympathetic to the Saxons, he let them use his house as a meeting place. Prince Harold was there with several of his bodyguards as was the Byzantine priest Cyril.

“Your work is already evident in this land,” Harold said with a smile on his face. “It seems Count Stephen has changed his ways. He has paid recompense for his sins.”

Thaddeus never had the opportunity to meet the Prince’s grandfather, Harold Godwinson, but he could imagine men following such a man. Now Prince Harold was charismatic and sincere.

“We learned the Count was incapacitated,” Thaddeus explained. “A relative of the King seemed to worm her way into his confidence and then imprisoned him.”

“Truly?” Harold asked. “Does the King know?”

“No,” Thaddeus replied, “and we will not tell him. It is better this way, for the Norman people and the Saxon people.”

“Well, you did good work,” Harold said.

“It is the Lord’s work,” Thaddeus said.

“Yes, of course,” the Prince said. “Well, I thank you and the good Lord for the work you have done for the Saxon people.”

“And for you?” Thaddeus asked.

“How do you mean?” Harold asked.

“Are you rallying your people?” Thaddeus asked. “Are you making preparations to retake your lands?”

Prince Harold laughed softly and then shook his head.

“A dream,” he said. “Could I hope for so many blessings in such a short time? No. In the last few weeks, I have finally realized it is a fool’s hope to think my people will ever rule these lands again. The Normans are now the rulers. It is time we understand that and learn to live with it.”

“Will you stay here, then?” Thaddeus asked. “Do you mean to live in disguise for the rest of your life?”

“No,” Harold replied. “Several Irish lords have expressed their willingness to take me and my family in and protect us. I do not know where I will settle, but I am rather looking forward to a life of peace.”

“Will you ever come back, my lord?” Alden asked.

“I don’t know,” Harold said, but then shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. This land will always be in my heart and in my blood, but it is time for change.”

“The Lord’s blessings,” Thaddeus said.

“Indeed,” Prince Harold said, shaking each one of the four men’s hands as he stood. Alden had tears in his eyes.

†

“HAS PRINCE HAROLD LEFT?” Wulfstan asked, sitting in a secret meeting room with Thaddeus in All Saints church in Chesterfield.

“Yes, Your Excellency,” Thaddeus said.

“That is good,” the bishop said. “I wish him luck.”

“He seemed at peace,” Thaddeus said.

“Peace might be a way of putting it,” Wulfstan said.

“How do you mean?” Thaddeus asked.

“He expected to be a king,” Wulfstan explained, “and now he will live the rest of his life as just a man, albeit a wealthy and well taken care of man. I like Prince Harold, and he is a good Christian man, but I highly doubt he is at peace with leaving England for Ireland, a place that, at times, was at odds with the Saxon people of these lands.”

“I guess sometimes we have no choice but to relent to our circumstances,” Thaddeus said with a shrug, taking a sip of the wine the bishop had given him.

“Truly spoken,” Wulfstan said, “and something you would know intimately, yes?”

Thaddeus nodded.

“I think this land is better with the Normans as its rulers,” Thaddeus said.

“Oh?” Wulfstan said, leaning back in his chair.

“They have all but ended the slave trade here,” Thaddeus said, “and ever since I first came here with a Roman legion, it has been fragmented and broken, and now, it has a single ruler and one strong enough to hold it all together.”

“Perhaps,” Wulfstan said.

“The Normans are ruthless,” Thaddeus said. “It is in their blood. But they will be good for England.”

“Again, another reason why I am glad my time on this earth is coming to an end,” the bishop said. Then, he shrugged.

“And what have you learned, Thaddeus Christopoulos, on this Lord’s mission?” the bishop asked.

“This witch—Renata—was the most powerful witch I have ever encountered,” Thaddeus said.

“Yes, she was,” Wulfstan agreed.

“She commanded minions from hell,” Thaddeus said, “including a succubus … and a powerful one.”

“She was powerful indeed,” Wulfstan said. “She was the High Priestess of a witch’s coven in France, ruling with a warlock named Galen.”

“He was there as well, Your Excellency,” Thaddeus said.

“As I suspected,” Wulfstan said. “She was close to the Devil.”

“I feel as if she could have killed us with little more than a thought.”

“Humility is key to righteousness,” Wulfstan said with a smile. “I wouldn’t doubt yourself, or your companions, so much. You are stronger than you think. And evil is always boastful. I believe she thought us beneath her and her efforts. You did kill her, after all.”

“Alden killed her,” Thaddeus said.

“Truly?” Wulfstan said with raised eyebrows.

“Yes,” Thaddeus replied. “So, what now?”

“At some point, I believe the Lord will call you to France, to follow Galen,” Wulfstan said. Then, he breathed deeply and let out a long sigh. “I am so thankful that my time on this earth is coming to an end. Simpler times are giving way to an age that would prove quite difficult for me to live in.”

“France?” Thaddeus muttered.

“Is it such an awful place?” Wulfstan asked.

“No,” Thaddeus said, shaking his head. “I lived there, once, when the Romans’ called it Gaul. It was a beautiful country, even if it holds some bitter memories. But … a witch’s coven?”

“Galen is up to great evil,” Wulfstan explained. “Renata’s and Galen’s influence is far-reaching. The strife between the Scots and the Normans is her doing. The discord between Robert Curthose and William Rufus is her doing. And, even if not directly, she had a hand in the tension in the Holy Land. The Byzantines, Jews, and Turks are on the brink of war, Thaddeus.”

“This is too much for me,” Thaddeus said.

“Again, you are much stronger than you give yourself credit,” Wulfstan said, “but don’t be surprised if you find yourself led to the Holy Land. Pope Urban is already gathering leaders to him, rallying Christians and encouraging them to help the Byzantines in the Holy Land; although, I wonder to what end and what gain for him.”

“Do you know where in France this coven is?” Thaddeus asked.

“Do not fret, holy warrior,” Wulfstan said. “The Lord will lead you. All in due time.”

“We will have time to rest, then?” Thaddeus asked.

“Of course,” Wulfstan said. “I am sorry to say that I must return to Winchester. William Rufus seems to think I am at his beck and call.”

“Will I ever see you again?” Thaddeus asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” Wulfstan said. “Well, I suppose we won’t see each other in this life.”

“No, I suppose not,” Thaddeus said, staring at his cup of wine.

“You are an extraordinary man, Thaddeus Christopoulos,” Wulfstan said. “Looking at you, I sometimes forget you are hundreds of years older than me … and many times wiser.”

“I don’t know about that,” Thaddeus said.

“Like I said, you are much stronger than you think,” Wulfstan said. “Your past is your past, and you cannot change that. You can only remember it so that you can pave a way for a brighter future.”

“I envy the farmer who can work day in and day out, and just live,” Thaddeus said.

“I do too,” Wulfstan said, “but it is because of you, the guardian of the Lord, that he is able to do so. Evil is always trying to work its way into this world, and there you are, to turn it back.”

They sat and drank the rest of their wine. Wulfstan stood and bowed, and Thaddeus returned the favor.

“Your Excellency,” Thaddeus said before Wulfstan could leave. “What did you do to my sword?”

“It is a fine weapon, is it not?” Wulfstan asked.

“It is,” Thaddeus replied. “A man from the Gupta Empire made it for me. He called the metal ukku steel. It is five hundred years old. But ever since you touched it, blessed it, it has glowed with the faintest of blue light, sometimes brightening.”

“I gave you a blessing,” Wulfstan said with a smile. “That is all.”

“Will it wear away?” Thaddeus asked.

“Does the Lord ever remove his favor from people?” Wulfstan asked.

Thaddeus just shrugged.

“Continue to answer the Lord’s call,” Wulfstan said, “and He will continue to bless the instrument by which you do His work.”

CHAPTER 30

“HOW IS ASAF?” Gunnar asked. The defrocked priest had been in bed for two days.

“Fine,” Thaddeus replied. “Resting. He could have killed himself with such exertion.”

“So, what now?” Gunnar asked.

“I don’t quite know,” Thaddeus replied with a shrug. “If I am to listen to Wulfstan as if he is speaking on behalf of God, we must go to France.”

“How soon?” Gunnar asked.

“Again, my friend, I don’t quite know,” Thaddeus replied.

“I would like to rest a while longer,” Gunnar said. “This place is rather nice when it isn’t being strangled by a witch.”

“You should have seen it eight hundred years ago,” Thaddeus said, “when it was wild and free. One of the most beautiful places I had ever seen. I had actually considered moving my family to Britannia.”

“The only other time I saw England was when we were pillaging it,” Gunnar said, looking away and his face downcast. “Those poor people.”

“We all have our tortured pasts,” Thaddeus said.

“And what do we do about him?” Gunnar asked, jerking his head sideways towards Alden.

They had been speaking in Greek, but he looked in Gunnar’s direction, at least knowing they were talking about him. He sat up straight, repositioning himself on the log on which he sat. While Thaddeus and Gunnar talked, Alden had tended to their fire and fed the horses.

“Ask him,” Thaddeus said.

“I don’t want to stay here,” Alden said in response to Gunnar’s question.

“This is your home,” Gunnar said.

“Is it?” Alden asked, as serious as could be.

“You are Saxon, aren’t you?” Gunnar asked.

“I am,” Alden replied, “but what do I have left here? My parents are dead. I have no friends. As much as I would love to believe it, I am an outsider among my people and the Normans. The thane lord I served is leaving for Ireland, a place I have no desire to go. It doesn’t feel like home.”

“Then what do you want to do?” Thaddeus asked.

“I want to go with you,” Alden said. “I could be your hearthguard.”

“I’m not a thane,” Thaddeus said.

“Then, an apprentice,” Alden said.

“Of what?” Thaddeus asked.

Alden shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “The sword. Fighting. Doing the Lord’s work.”

“We may never come back here,” Thaddeus said.

“I don’t care,” Alden replied.

“You will see things,” Gunnar added, “things that will haunt your dreams. You could lose your life.”

“It’s worth it,” Alden said.

“What is?” Thaddeus asked.

“To be with people who care for others,” Alden said.

“Do we?” Gunnar asked.

“Don’t you?” Alden replied, and then Gunnar smiled and nodded.

“It’s settled then,” Thaddeus said. “Alden will go with us.”

“Where to?” Alden asked.

“Maybe France,” Thaddeus replied. “Gaul is what the Romans called it.”

“Will we ever go to Rome?” Alden asked.

“Probably,” Gunnar replied.

“And what about the Holy Land,” Alden asked, “the birthplace of Christ?”

“Most likely,” Thaddeus replied, to which Gunnar gave him a concerned look.

“But now what?” Alden asked.

“We wait,” Gunnar replied.

“For what?” Alden asked.

“For the Lord to lead us,” Thaddeus replied, “and for Asaf to regain his strength.”

“When he does,” Gunnar said, “we should go north.”

“North?” Thaddeus asked. “Why?”

“Fighting … between the Normans and the Scots,” Gunnar replied.

“You wish to fight?” Alden asked.

“No, my friend,” Gunnar replied. “As much as it may not seem so as of late, most of what we do is comfort and preach and pray. Death will consume the north, and that will delight the Devil. If we go north, we can comfort those who mourn the tragedy of war. We can give comfort to the widows and alms to the poor … and maybe some hope to the hopeless.”

“North it is, then,” Thaddeus said with a smile. “We will go north, we will pray, and we will spread the Lord’s peace to all who need it.”

BEFORE YOU GO!

Thank you for reading To Kill A Witch! I love writing, but I love writing because of readers like you. Reviews are super important, especially to unknown authors such as myself. They give other great readers an idea of what to expect from my story. If you have time, please leave me one. It can be a short one if you’re busy; even just one sentence will do!

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AFTERWORD

The topic of witches and witchcraft is one that is ripe with mystery, intrigue, and controversy. Our modern understanding of witchcraft didn’t really show up until about the 15th or 16th century. Before then, witches served in a number of roles - and, even if they weren’t necessarily referred to as witches, they were women practicing magic. In early polytheistic cultures, witches were the women who served powerful goddesses and female deities. Many of them were revered in their cultures, and one witch is even mentioned in the Book of Samuel in the Bible (even though she isn’t outright called a witch in most translations). In thinking of any culture that embraced magic and mysticism, one could see how divination, fortune telling, and a connection to the supernatural might be seen as a gift rather than a curse.

With the expansion of Christianity, witchcraft slowly took on a much more devious nature. These were people connected to evil spirits, demons, and the Devil. However, the classic view of the witch was much different, as a very male-centric society thought women too dull and not nearly intelligent enough to practice such arcane arts. It was men who were the witches (we refer to them as warlocks today) and if a woman was involved in witchcraft, it was because a male witch - simply, a practitioner of magic and mysticism - had seduced her into it. And, even then, there wasn’t much attention given to these wizards, as they were considered by many silly.

Then Malleus Maleficarum was published by two monks with a clear agenda. They declared women foes, enemies. And the modern day witch hysteria, which culminated in the United States - still mostly British colonies - with the Salem Witch Trials, was born. In a short period of time, 80,000 women were condemned to death and either hanged or burned at the stake for practicing witchcraft. And what signified a practitioner of the dark arts? You might have guessed it - a weird mole, a crooked nose, or an odd-looking birthmark.

And today? Well, witchcraft takes on many forms today. Some practice Wiccan, a modern day homage to the naturalistic and pagan religions of the Ancient Celts and Germans. Others, I am sure, dabble in much darker elements. Others, well, they simply want to look cool at Halloween. So, there is a little bit about the history of witchcraft, which is somewhat vague and incomplete. I hope you enjoyed To Kill A Witch. HAPPY READING!!!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Christopher Patterson lives in Tucson, Arizona with his wife and three children. Christopher has a Bachelors in English and Creative Writing and a Masters in Education and is a teacher of many subjects, including English, History, Government, Economics, and Health. He is also a football and wrestling coach.

Christopher Patterson started reading fantasy novels from a young age, took an early interest in early, Medieval Europe, and played Dungeons and Dragons. He has read The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and the Wizard of Earthsea many times and heralds Tolkien, Jordan, and Martin, among others, as major influences in his own writing.

Christopher is also very involved in church, especially music and youth ministries, and is very active, having been a competitive power lifter since high school.

He thanks his grandmother for letting him waste paper on her typewriter while trying to write the "Next Great American Novel" and his parents for always supporting his dreams.

ALSO BY CHRISTOPHER PATTERSON

The Shadow’s Fire Trilogy

A Chance Beginning

Dark Winds

Breaking the Flame

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Contents

Copyright

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Before You Go!

Afterword

About the Author

Also by Christopher Patterson