-You are reading episodes of THE POWER IN THE DARK, which is Book 1 of THE
ANCIENT BLOODLINES TRILOGY by Barry Mathias. ISBN: 9781897435113
CHAPTER 5
John woke with a start, fearful and wide-eyed. It was early evening and the sun was starting to set in a pastel-coloured sky. Birds were singing and the hum of the insects was loud in his ears. The smell of horse sweat was all around him, and he felt an emptiness in his stomach.
He scrambled to his feet, aware of the ache in his arms. The dead horse was covered with buzzing flies and was still warm to the touch. Beyond, only ten paces away, lay the body of the stranger, the sword deep in his chest like a gravestone. His eyes were open, staring unseeing into the darkening sky. The cruel lips were parted, revealing stained teeth that were clenched together, giving the face an expression of agonized terror.
It was some minutes before John could drag his eyes from the awful corpse. Slowly, a feeling of fear and guilt began to overcome him, as he remembered the questions that had tormented him before he had collapsed, utterly exhausted. On his hand, the imprint on the palm was still as clear as before, but the power he had felt surging from his hand was now only a memory.
John moved cautiously to the edge of the circle, watching the sword, fearing its deadly force. Nothing happened as he placed first one foot, then the other over the circular mark on the ground. He released his breath loudly. The circle, like the sign on his hand, had lost its power and was just a dusty mark in the field. Whatever magic had been conjured up had vanished, and he was left with a dead man and a putrefying horse.
He stared at the sword. Should he take it and bury the body? If he removed the saddle and the rest of the horse's equipment, the animal would appear as if it had broken its neck in a gallop and had been left by its rider for the crows and wild creatures to pick clean. Perhaps he should just leave the body and return home? Old Mary would know what to do. But then there was the girl. Supposing she was still close by and was lying badly injured, unable to reach her home or call for help? If he pretended that nothing had happened, she might die. Then again, if she had somehow reached home, what story would she tell her family? When they found the body, they would know that he had been responsible for the man's death. It would be useless to try to explain what had really happened. Nobody would believe such a story when he could hardly believe it himself. He would be branded a murderer. However, the man had been trying to catch the girl and did attack her. But who was the girl? She could well be a thief or even a murderer herself. Yet even as he thought this he knew, in his heart, that it could not be so.
The thoughts pushed and pulled at him. He stood staring down at the sword and at the evil, twisted face of the dead man, and was unable to decide what to do. He remembered the runes on the sword and once more compared them with the image on his palm. They were the same. He came to a decision: he would remove the sword and take it back to the old woman. Darkness was falling, and with luck nobody would see the horse or the body until morning, by which time he would have been able to share the problem with her. She would know what to do.
He moved hesitantly towards the huge body and stared steadily at it. There was no doubt the man was dead, and had been so since the sword had transfixed him to the earth. John grasped the hilt of the sword with both hands and, closing his eyes tightly together, he pulled hard. It came away remarkably easily, but he dared not open his eyes until he had turned his back on the awful corpse. He felt he might be sick, and stood very still, breathing deeply.
Then he walked quickly away towards the path, and wiped the sword on a tuft of grass. The blood was thick and sticky and left a dark stain on the green blades, that were already a deeper colour in the thickening dusk.
As he turned for home, he heard the sound of crows flying up from the trees further down the track. Their raucous cries echoed a warning to the whole area. Someone was coming.
John flung himself behind some bushes and lay flat on the ground. Panic overcame him once again. To be found with the sword in his hand would take some explaining, and if they found the mark on his hand and the same mark on the sword, what conclusions would they draw?
Some moments later John saw a large figure coming quickly down the track. He was moving at a fast, awkward trot, his breath sounding in loud gasps, and he carried a bundle of wooden poles on his back. As he came closer, John recognized the man as the village blacksmith. His black beard and his broad shoulders were unmistakable.
As the blacksmith approached, he paused in his stride to yell "Gwenny!" His powerful voice disturbed more birds as the sound spread through the forest. John had only seen the man from a distance as he worked in his forge, but Peter had said that he was the strongest man in the village, and probably in the whole area.
"Gwenny! Can ye hear me?" he bellowed.
There was no doubt in John's mind, the blacksmith was looking for the same girl whom the dead warrior had attacked. Should he reveal himself and try to answer the questions that were sure to follow? Suppose the blacksmith did not believe him, and accused him of murdering the girl? After all, a man was dead. When John thought about it, he realized he was no longer the same person who had left for market that morning. He had killed another human being. He closed his eyes to shut out the horrible thoughts and felt tears run down his burning cheeks.
"Gwenny!" The blacksmith gave a final cry and continued his lumbering run. When he was a short distance from John's hiding place, the blacksmith stopped and let out a cry of alarm.
John raised his head and rubbed his eyes as he watched the man dart quickly towards the dead body of the stranger. The blacksmith examined the corpse, walked over to the dead horse, and slowly surveyed the field. Then he noticed the flattened vegetation and followed the channel through the high grass where the girl had been chased and knocked down. The blacksmith looked about, returned to the body once more, and pondered the scene. He stared hard at the deep forest and seemed to be looking for something. After a pause, he trotted over to the path and began to search along the grass verge. It was not long before he came to the spot where John had cleaned the sword. The blacksmith bent down to take a closer look and touched the bloodstained grass with his forefinger.
"So?" he said in a long-drawn out sound. "So?"
John lay very still and tried not to breathe. He felt the sweat form on his brow, as he watched the blacksmith in the fading light.
The man was staring closely at the grass and at the bushes. Then he stood up and said in a loud voice, "Nothing more to be done here for now." He turned to the south and began to walk with great strides along the path, away from the village, and soon disappeared from view.
It was some time before John moved. He held the heavy sword in his right hand and felt a certain security from it. The copper sun had finally set behind the western hills, the shadows had increased, and everything looked different. It was a clear sky with a bright half moon, which produced a silvery light in the field, intensifying the darkness under the trees.
John could hear the flutter of birds as they settled down for the night, and somewhere close by, small creatures writhed in the undergrowth. There was no wind and a heavy brooding silence enveloped the forest.
"I must get back to the old woman," John said to himself. He moved cautiously onto the track that looked like a silver river in the moonlight. In contrast, the edge of the woods was dark and menacing. Nothing moved, and after a moment John decided it was safe to continue. It would take about an hour to get to the cottage and he began to walk quickly, holding the sword in his right hand and resting the blade on his shoulder. Every few paces he paused, listened, and checked the path behind.
He jumped violently when a white owl glided silently across the field, and again when a rabbit broke cover almost under his feet. The trees on his left appeared to get bigger, and at times he was almost certain they moved. He thought of Old Mary's saying: Fear is the enemy. He who does not fear, has no enemies. If only he could stop being afraid.
Ahead was the end of the open fields, where the track disappeared into the woods and weaved its way through oak, elm and ash before it climbed gently up into open ground again. John approached the dark mouth of the wood with staring eyes and a pounding heart. By day this had been a pleasant, cool refuge from the burning sun. Now it was a place of terror. He was tired and hungry, and his one thought was to reach the security of the cottage and sink into the softness of the straw palliasse on which he slept. Although he felt the blood pounding in his neck, he knew he had the key to unlock his fear, if only he could force himself to use it.
The sword was becoming increasingly heavy and he was aware of the bruising he had received both during the fight, and as a result of the battering from the strange wind. Tomorrow, he said to himself, he would learn Old Mary's ways in earnest. Tomorrow he would start afresh and practise what she told him. She had been right so many times that day.
"Don't move or I'll kill ye!" A huge, dark figure sprang out from the shadows. John froze, unable to speak.
"Lay down that sword!" the voice roared. "Now!"
John saw the flash of metal in the moonlight and cringed as he waited for the blow to come.
"Lay it down slowly," the voice commanded.
John realized he was fully visible in the moonlight, while his adversary was half in shadow, and had the advantage.
Slowly John removed the sword from his shoulder and laid it on the ground. If the man was going to kill him he would have done so without giving a warning.
"Who are you?" John asked in a faint voice.
"Never ye mind who I be. Just what 'ave ye been up to?" the man spoke with a strong local accent. His voice was cold and threatening.
"It was an accident, sir."
"Accident! Did ye kill the man back there?"
John recognized the blacksmith as he moved out of the shadows.
"Yes," John spoke quickly. "He was attacking a girl, I tried to defend her and he came off his horse. Later he tried to drag me back by magic."
"Magic!" the blacksmith echoed in an incredulous voice.
"Yes. Then the girl disappeared and I was drawn back by a mighty wind towards him, and at the last moment I raised my hand." John faltered, knowing how unbelievable his tale must sound.
"Your 'and?"
"Yes, I have a..." he paused, "a sign on my hand. It is too long a story to tell you why. But I raised my hand and yelled my other name, and suddenly the sword turned and killed the man. I didn't mean to kill him. It was the sword. This sword," he added lamely.
The blacksmith said nothing. Then he came forward and took hold of John's hand and held it up against the moonlight. Although he could not see clearly, he could see enough. The sign resembled the one on the sword he carried.
"I'm Tom Roper, the blacksmith. Now ye must tell me all ye knows. What was the girl like?" His voice revealed his concern.
"She was... my height with black hair. Long. And she wore a blue robe."
"What 'appened to 'er?"
"She was knocked down by the man on the horse. He dragged her over his saddle. I knocked him off with a pole," John spoke rapidly, as he relived the experience. "Later, I realize she had vanished."
"Ye 'aven't seen 'er since then?"
"No."
"When was this? What time o' the day?" The blacksmith was very agitated.
"It must have been..." John thought, "early afternoon."
"Ah. Early afternoon," Tom repeated. "That be the last time ye saw 'er?"
"Yes, I... so many things have happened. I... I passed out at one time. I don't remember much," he apologised.
"An' this sword ye be carryin'?"
"It was his sword. It's got the same marks on it I have on my hand. It flew through the air and killed him."
Tom regarded John in silence. He felt the boy was telling the truth, but what sort of truth involved magic? Yet the boy appeared to have killed a fully armed fighting man who, by the look of him, had been both strong and fearsome. Also the boy had the marks on his hand. Tom had only ever seen those marks on the sword that had remained hidden in the forge since the night when Gwen arrived. Now there was another sword with the same marks. What did it mean? Who was the enemy?
"We'll go back down the track to the body and ye'll show me where ye last saw 'er. I 'ope for your sake 'er ain't come to no 'arm."
John was dismayed. "I tried to help her. I didn't harm her!"
"I only 'ave your word for that. It seems mighty strange t' me that a mere boy like 'ee could kill a fightin' man like 'im." Tom had encountered strange things in the Holy Land, but this was Norman Britain where such things did not happen. "Right then, ye keep up mind."
John knew he had no choice. He feared the strength of the blacksmith and although escape by running away was a possibility, John was equally certain Tom would follow for as long as it took to recapture him.
The blacksmith set a brisk pace down the silvery path. Once again, the woods on the right seemed full of terrors. Although Tom feared the blacksmith, yet in a strange way he wanted to stay near him, for at least he was a fear that John could understand, while the wood represented the hidden, evil horrors of his worst dreams. So, reluctantly, yet unwilling to be parted from him, John followed close behind.
It was not long before they came to the scene of the fight. Tom, who was still leading and carrying both swords on his shoulder, let out a loud cry and ran into the field. As John caught up, he could see, in the silvery light, that the bodies of both the man and the horse had disappeared, and something heavy had been dragged into the woods.
• • •
Gwen had been dozing fitfully. It was dark and she lay propped against a broad tree, too weary and sore to do more than slowly alter her position. Every joint in her body ached and her head throbbed. She knew her father would be looking for her, and if she stayed where she was, he would be sure to find her as soon as it got light. Also, when the sun had risen she would be able to decide the approximate direction of the village, and make her own way out of the forest.
She guessed it was past midnight. The moon was up and although darkness surrounded the trees like a thick cloak, there were areas where its light shone through, illuminating the paths and small clearings. There were the usual night sounds, but slowly other noises began to invade her semi-conscious mind: the crackling and crunching of dry twigs and leaves as many people moved along a nearby path.
Without a second thought, she staggered to her feet and held on to the tree for support. Her body's injuries made her groan with pain and she took a deep breath and called out as loudly as she could, "I'm here, father! I'm here!"
There was an immediate silence, as though the seekers were listening. Gwen called again: "I'm over here! I'm over here!" Even as she cried out, a fleeting suspicion crossed her mind. If it was her father and the men of the village they would surely have called her name and given a cheer when they heard her call. But still there was no friendly reply. Gwen heard, instead, muffled speech as of men debating in whispers. Then a loud crashing as many bodies ran towards her. A voice called out, "Show yourself!" It was a harsh voice with a foreign accent, unlike any she had ever heard in the village. She began to fear for her safety, but her injuries prevented her from hiding and there was little to be gained by keeping silent. As a precaution, she slipped off her silver bracelet and placed it in a deep pocket of her gown.
"I'm here!" Gwen called; her voice rang out in the still air. Almost immediately, a number of figures appeared in the moonlight spaces, and behind them came the sounds of horses. As she stared at them her worst suspicions were confirmed: these were not local men, and her father was nowhere to be seen.
Rough hands grabbed her and she cried out in pain. She had a glimpse of strange helmets, grim faces and staring eyes. She was half-dragged, half-carried towards the main group who could be heard advancing through the trees.
The pain was intense, and it was in vain that she cried out to them that they were hurting her. Then she was in a tight circle of faces. Gwen was so afraid that she could not tell if she was standing or being held off the ground. There was a large man in front of her; his eyes glowed red in the light of a burning torch that was held near her face. He gave an order in a language unknown to Gwen, and many of the other faces disappeared. She could hear them as they searched the area.
"Who are you?" the man asked in a slow but intense manner, as though he was unfamiliar with the English words. As she looked at him she was forcibly reminded of the man who had attacked her that afternoon, and fear gripped her like a cold plunge in an icy stream; it took her breath away. The man in front of her was dressed like the other stranger, and had the same evil eyes and cruel mouth.
His rough hand smacked against her soft cheeks, first one way then the other. Her head was knocked from side to side, shocking her out of her thoughts.
"Speak!" he roared. "Who are you?"
"Gwen Roper, sir," she gasped, choking on her tears. "I'm hurt, please don't hit me."
Since her earliest days her father had warned her never to speak to strangers, especially those with foreign accents. He had never given her a clear reason, but had said that they were often up to no good. As she stood captive in front of this man, she understood why her father had given this warning. Her cheeks were on fire and tears coursed down her face. No man had ever hit her or even threatened her in her whole life, and now in the space of one day two men had assaulted her.
"Are you alone?" the man demanded, unmoved by her distress.
"Yes, sir," she stammered as sobs racked her body.
"Why are you here?"
"I was injured... I hurt my head, your honour. I did not know where I was. I thought you were my father with the men from our villager. Please take me home, sir," she pleaded.
The man exchanged some words with the others. She sensed that there was disagreement and that she was the reason.
"Where do you come from?" the leader demanded.
"From..." she paused, her mind racing. The other stranger had been looking for her and had tracked her down. If these men were his companions they might be seeking her too, though she could not imagine what reason they might have. "From Little Woodley," she gasped, her breath still coming in spasms. She averted her eyes, ashamed of her lie.
"Where is that?"
"A few miles from here, sir."
"Why are you in these woods?" The man raised his hand.
"I hurt myself and got lost in the dark," she began to sob again, fearful of further violence, and convinced he would know she was lying.
"You live near here and yet you get lost?" he mocked. There was more to this and he was going to get the truth.
"I was looking for herbs, sir," she sobbed. "I'm not used to these woods in the dark. I'm hurt bad, sir."
A man on her left spoke rapidly and pointed to the sky. She guessed he was referring to the passing of the hours of darkness.
"You will come with us!" He turned away and mounted a huge horse. Towering over her, he bellowed further instructions in his strange language.
"Where are you taking me? Please don't-" A tight gag of foul-tasting material prevented further speech. Her hands were bound behind her back, and she was thrown like a sack of flour across the neck of a horse for the second time that day. The pain and the shock were so great she fainted and her mind released its hold on her pain-filled body.
CHAPTER 6
Peter Halfcart limped home feeling hot and bad tempered. He had been at the market all day in the hope of seeing John, who had not appeared, in spite of his promise.
"See if I care, John Witch!" he yelled at nobody in particular.
Some travellers on the road exchanged glances and pulled a face as they passed him, but Peter did not notice, his mind was consumed with the injustice of it all. John had promised to meet him and was going to sell a calf. It had all seemed so easy. Peter had told his father about the calf, and his father had told an important friend from another village.
"The ol' witch be not interested in money. Give the boy enough for a tunic, and ye could make a goodly profit!" his father had boasted, pleased to be able to impress his friend.
"I'll make it worth ye while, Dick," the man had answered. The two men had gone to the alehouse in high spirits.
Peter had been told to wait for John and prevent him from reaching the market. The plan was for Peter to say his father had a buyer for the calf, and all should have gone smoothly. Peter had felt some unease when he had first heard of his father's scheme, but his father was a hard man and often, when he was in a bad mood, he would beat his son, blaming the boy for his own lameness. Also, Peter knew the old woman did not care about money, so where was the fault?
Now, at the end of a wasted day, his father would be waiting with his leather belt in his hand. The thought made the boy's eyes water.
"It's not my fault," he murmured, practising his excuse. "John did not come to market today. He must be ill. He's bound to bring it next market day." Peter began to shake with fear. He knew his father would not accept such excuses. Dick Halfcart spent a lot of time in the alehouse, and to lose face in front of the man from the other village was something he would not accept. Even now he would be standing with his back to the hearth, the heavy belt in his rough, hairy hands. He would probably be drunk, as he was after every market day.
Peter could imagine his father's voice, slurred and menacing: "Come 'ere, ye limping devil. I'll teach ye to make a fool o' me. Ye young waster, I'll skin ye this time. Come 'ere!" The coarse voice filled his mind with terror, and he found himself warding off imaginary blows, and whimpering as he did so.
He turned off the main road, up a narrow track leading to a small group of tumbledown hovels, clustered round the other side of a large, evil-smelling pond. There was nobody on the weed-covered track, but on the other side of the pond there was noisy activity. A woman was running from one of the shacks, screaming and waving her arms, and a large man was staggering after her, hitting at her with a leather strap. He was obviously drunk, and his actions were violent and inaccurate, but he was still able to catch her a vicious blow across her shoulders. She gave an agonised yell, and disappeared behind the shed. The man stopped, his body heaving for breath. His face was red and his eyes stared wildly around.
Peter froze, mesmerized with fear, like a rabbit that sees a stoat. It was his father, who, having warmed himself up on the luckless female who was Peter's mother, was now intent on finding the reason for his day's disaster.
It was too late for Peter to hide, he was a mere forty paces away, on an open track, with only the deep pond between himself and his drunken, angry father.
"I see 'ee! Ye crawling dog! Ye limping mother's boy! Come 'ere!" His voice boomed across the water. "I'll make 'ee sorry ye was ever born!"
"I hate ye!" Peter yelled back. He was amazed at what he had said. It was true, he did hate this man who bullied his mother, wasted all their money on ale, and was always violent and cruel. Peter had lacked the courage to say it before, but now he had done so, he knew there was no going back.
"I hate ye!" he yelled again. "Ye be a no-good drunken bully. I hope ye rots in hell!" He made a rude gesture as a last farewell, and limped off quickly down the track.
• • •
It was almost dark as Peter made his way past the small stone church, and with the fading of the light his spirits reached a low ebb. At first it had seemed a wonderful thing to be free. He had told his father what he thought of him, and not before time; he had escaped a beating, and now he had the chance to travel the country and be his own man. He spent the first hour imagining all the things he would do, and how sorry his father would be having forced his own son to leave home.
But after a glorious hour of freedom, the chains of the world slowly encircled him. He had eaten very little during the day, and was tired and thirsty. Gradually, he became aware of the need for a place to sleep for the night. What of the next day, and all the following days? He knew his father would not miss him, and his mother would have one less mouth to feed. They would be glad to get rid of him! The thought was a bitter blow, and he sat down on a small mound and sighed deeply, his eyes moist with emotion.
After a while, he became more aware of his surroundings. He was in the burial ground, and the grassy knoll he was sitting on was someone's grave. He jumped up, afraid of what he might have done. He remembered the stories the boys of the village would tell each other, of dismembered bodies rising out of their temporary graves and searching for human blood. His eyes darted round the quiet, tree-lined patch of ground that served as the village graveyard. Nothing stirred in the windless air; no unusual sounds. Nothing. Yet, deep shadows had formed around the brooding trees as the twilight thickened.
Holding his breath, he stepped carefully out of the graveyard and back onto the twisting path that led south. If only John was with him, it would have been all right. John always knew what to do.
"That be it!" he exclaimed. "I'll go to John's cottage. He'll get the old witch t' give me some food and a place to sleep." Peter was not too sure about the old woman, in fact he was afraid of her. His father said she had murdered the Turners, who had lived there before. Others spoke of her power as a witch, and hinted at strange practices which happened at full moon. He hesitated, but then he reasoned that John lived with her, and he was not afraid, so she could not be too bad. Anyway, he decided, his lack of a home was John's fault. He was supposed to be a friend, and Peter recalled what his father had always said: Make use of friends, it's what they be for.
With this happy thought, he set off along the path leading in the direction of the old woman's cottage. He had never been there, but he had seen it from a distance, and he knew it was just a matter of following the path for about four miles. Having solved his immediate problem, he felt better, and much of his tiredness faded away. It was only a short time before it would be night, and as a form of defence, and as a way of moving faster, he selected a sturdy hazel sapling for use as a stick. He always carried a small rusty knife he had found one day near a haystack, and hacked at the sapling until it was a suitable length. Then, resting on it, he continued his journey along the path.
It was night before he covered the first mile. The meadows were bright in the moonlight and the path was easy to follow. Above his head the stars were a million tiny fires, and it was possible to believe, on such a night, a person could see almost as well as by day. Peter, however, had no such thoughts. The dark wood on his right was a constant worry to him as he moved silently down the path. He had inherited his parents' superstitions, and coupled with a colourful imagination, he was in terror of those things of the dark hours that the worst horror stories brought forth. In the past, with a crowd of other boys, he had ventured into the black forests, pretending to a kind of shared bravery. But by himself, he was terrified.
Peter stopped to massage his leg, and as he bent down to rest the stick on the ground, he heard voices. He panicked, and flattened himself on the earth and remained very still.
After some moments he heard the voices again. There were a number of them speaking in hoarse whispers, and in a language he did not understand. Slowly, as his courage returned, he raised his head and was able to identify the direction of the speakers. They were about thirty paces in front of him, standing in a dark group in the meadow grass. Peter realized he was lying by the side of the path, and would easily be seen if they decided to return his way. Cautiously, he moved himself into the tall grass, trying desperately to avoid scraping the loose stones littering the ground. As soon as he was hidden, he stood up, slowly, taking the strain on his stick. His dark hair and unwashed face provided excellent camouflage as he peered over the tops of the uneven grass.
There were four figures outlined in the moonlight, with their backs towards him. They appeared to be very excited about something, and every now and then one would speak in a louder voice, his speech fast and emphatic. Other voices murmured in reply, and even though the language was quite indecipherable, Peter was able to judge they were having a disagreement. It appeared the main speaker wanted to leave two of the men and depart with the other. He was waving his arms and pointing at something on the ground. The other two men were shaking their heads and appeared to be unwilling to stay. After some minutes of argument, the leader came to a decision and, having given a short command, they all crossed the path and disappeared into the forest with a speed and quietness of movement that was both impressive and unnerving. Not a twig cracked, not a bird was disturbed as the four strangers faded like shadows into the trees.
It was a long time before Peter felt it was safe to move back to the path. Whoever the men were, he was certain they were up to no good. People never ventured out after dark unless they were hunting, and these men were not hunters. Besides, they were foreigners and the only ones that he had ever heard or seen in his whole life. He had listened to the ex-soldiers at the market talk about the Turks, who were the soldiers of Satan, and how they sacrificed Christians in their devil-worship. His father had once met a Spanish merchant, and a man in a nearby village was supposed to be married to an Irish woman. That was the extent of his knowledge of foreigners. It was possible these were not human beings at all. They had all disappeared without a sound and they had looked unnaturally dark in the white glare of the moon. Perhaps the forest was full of spirits and he had witnessed some strange ceremony. As his imagination began to blossom, he moved, almost in spite of himself, down the edge of the path. As his anxious eyes left the shadows of the forest and flicked across the meadow, he saw the dead horse.
He remained frozen for some seconds, as his mind tried to sort out the meaning of the black shape. When the panic subsided, he moved hesitantly towards the silent outline, and breathed with relief when he realized what it was. "It be an ol' dead 'orse!" he exclaimed. "Just an ol' dead 'orse."
It was then he saw the body of the dead rider. Peter let out a cry of alarm, as he expected it to jump up and attack him. He even turned, in a half-hearted attempt to run away, but when the figure remained totally still, Peter eventually summoned up enough courage to approach the silent shape.
In the moonlight the awful corpse was hideous. The staring, lifeless eyes glared out from a yellowy-white face and the teeth were revealed in a demonic grin. There was a deep gash in his chest.
The horror of the sight was too much for Peter. His legs buckled under him and his empty stomach heaved in a series of uncontrolled convulsions. After a while he was able to stagger to his feet and limp painfully away towards the path. He was emotionally exhausted and, having had no food or drink for many hours, he collapsed into the nearest clump of bushes, intending to stay the night there, rather than risk any more horrific encounters.
He had just dozed off in a sitting position among the thick greenery, his knees drawn up to his chin, his stick clasped firmly in both hands, when he was awoken by the sound of horses moving out of the forest. With trembling hands, he parted the bushes to see a large group of armed men, some on horses, approach the corpse. The figures were dark but their sharp weapons gleamed in the moonlight. A huge man on an enormous horse was giving instructions in a low, authoritative voice, while the rest moved like ants, in a flurry of activity. As Peter watched, the dead man was strapped over a spare horse, which was led away, while a large group tied the carcass of the horse onto a litter made from branches. Four horses were attached to the litter and it was dragged into the forest, with the men fanning out on both sides. Two remained behind to quickly replace vegetation to cover their entry into the forest, and then, they too were gone. The whole operation had been completed in a matter of minutes, and Peter found it hard to believe he had not imagined it.
He sat for some time, unwilling to leave the safety of his hiding place. His father had always said one should never do anything unless one was going to get something out of it. Ain't nobody can fill 'is belly with a thank-'ee-kindly. If there be no profit in it, let it be. The advice had usually been given with a hefty blow. Peter could never remember when his father had been kind to him. Always, there had been the constant reminder that his lameness meant he was useless. Once, when his mother had drowned her sorrows in a flagon of cider, she revealed it was Peter's father who had caused his son's lameness.
Peter was only a year old when his father threw him from his cradle because he was crying. He received a broken leg from this assault, but his father was too drunk to care, and his mother was too frightened to seek proper advice, which was why Peter grew up with a twisted leg. Some weeks after this revelation, Peter blurted out his knowledge to his father while trying to avoid a thrashing for being slow. The result was a systematic attack on every member of the family, which only ceased when Dick Halfcart exhausted himself. Nobody ever mentioned it again.
"Ain't none of my business," Peter reassured himself, and settled back into the cover of the bushes to await the dawn.
• • •
"There be more t' this than meets the eye," Tom whispered. He was a simple man, and given to making obvious statements. But because of his deep voice and powerful body, he always sounded impressive.
"What do we do now?" John asked. He was tired, frightened, hungry and quite unable to understand why anyone would want to drag away a dead horse in the middle of the night.
Tom's eyes searched the forest for signs of movement. "We must follow 'em, whoever they be. They may 'ave Gwenny. If we waits 'til daybreak, them could be miles away. Come on!" He looked at John and noticed his weariness, "Ye'd better do the best ye can."
"Why don't you follow, and I'll go to the village for help," John said.
"Oh no ye don't, m'lad. Ye don't get off that easy. Ye got a lot of questions t' answer. For all I knows ye could 'ave somethin' t' do with all this." He paused, "If ye 'ave been tellin' the truth, then I reckons ye be wise t' stay with me 'til we knows what's what." Tom turned into the forest.
John took a deep breath and followed him. Perhaps the blacksmith was right. The thought of having to make his way home in the dark, and without a weapon of any kind, was a daunting prospect. At least he had some security with this powerful man, who seemed to have only one concern, and that was for the lovely girl he called Gwenny.
They soon picked up the broken path along which the dead horse had been dragged. Even in the blackness of the forest, it was not difficult to follow the trail. The fresh tracks of the horses and the ruts of some heavy conveyance were easy to feel under foot, in contrast to the more level spongy feel of the forest floor. At times they could see the tracks when they came to small clearings illuminated by moonlight.
"Is Gwenny your daughter?" John asked.
It was a while before Tom answered with an abrupt "Yes." Then he added, "We'd best be quiet."
They crept forward silently, listening for any sound which might give them an indication of the whereabouts of the group ahead. Tom had reasoned that there must be at least two men, and perhaps many more, to have been able to remove the horse and the body so quickly. John found his legs were moving mechanically, and his mind was half-asleep as he strove, in vain, to keep up with the determined blacksmith.
John was rudely jolted awake by a large, hard-skinned hand across his mouth. At the same time he was pinned against a leather jerkin. He fought vigorously to release himself.
"Keep still an' listen," Tom hissed in his ear.
They stood as though rooted to the earth. John was aware of the thumping of his heart and the heat of the blacksmith's hand, which remained clamped over his mouth and cheeks. As John slowly removed the pressure of the hand, he heard the sound Tom had heard. It was the rustle of something, or someone, moving through the forest on the right of the path.
Tom released his grip of the boy and removed the two swords from his shoulder. "Hold this," he growled, and handed a sword back to John. He knew it was the one he had taken from the dead stranger. He did not know how he knew, but it felt right as he held it, and his palm tingled.
As he clasped the sword, a faint voice could be heard in the quiet night. It was a long way off, like an echo on a foggy night, but there was no doubt that it was a girl's voice, and it came from along the path they were following. There was no longer any sound from the trees on their right. Whoever or whatever it was remained, like them, motionless. Again, the girl's voice could be heard calling out in the still air. It was a frightened call for help in a dangerous world.
"Come on!" Tom urged. "That be Gwenny callin'." He began to run, and moved surprisingly quickly for a big man. John tried to keep up, but it was a losing battle; he was tired and the sword weighed him down. As he turned a bend in the path, he tripped over a thick tree root and sprawled headlong on the ground with a jarring thud. Tom vanished into the night.
John lay where he had fallen, fighting for breath. He felt exhausted after his headlong gallop. He raised himself to his knees, and was in the act of forcing himself to his feet, using the sword as a prop, when a demonic figure lurched up beside him.
The shock was so great that John flung himself to the side, lost his balance and rolled over, pulling the sword round to protect himself as he did so. The outline of the person could be seen silhouetted against a patch of clear sky, holding a knife in his hand.
"Who are you?" John gasped. He gripped the sword, holding it in front of him as he lay partly supported by a tree.
"Be it, John?" a timid voice enquired.
"Peter! What are you doing here?" John's voice was faint with amazement.
"I thought it be thee," Peter said. "There be many strange things goin' on an' I be real frighted."
John used the sword to lever himself to his feet. "I'm glad to see you, Peter, even though you nearly scared me to death." He laughed nervously.
The two youths stared about them. Enormous trees were etched out in the dark by patches of moonlight, and everywhere there was a strange brooding silence. The forest seemed full of menace.
"The blacksmith's gone on ahead," John whispered, unaware that he had lowered his voice. "I suppose we'd better follow him."
Peter grabbed his arm. "Don't do that, John," he pleaded. "There be a horde of 'em soldiers, an' they got swords an' things. It'd be better if we went back to the cottage, then we-"
His words were interrupted by the sound of a man's deep voice bellowing something from far down the track, followed by a wild eruption of screaming and shouting, and the dull clank of steel hitting steel.
"Come on!" John shouted, and he began to run towards the noise of the fighting.
"No, John!" Peter screamed, hobbling behind him. "Let's go back!"
"We've got to help!" John yelled back. "He's trying to save his daughter."
"It be no use!" Peter gasped. "We can't fight soldiers. We'll be killed. Don't leave me, John!"
But John was already disappearing into the darkness, and Peter, still hissing out his protests, limped frantically behind, desperate to avoid being left by himself. As John ran towards the conflict, he rested the sword on his shoulder, his eyes staring into the darkness ahead. He knew if he stopped to think he would not continue, but something inside was urging him on and he felt a strange exhilaration, as though he were diving into a deep pool.
The path bent sharply to the right, past some dark trees, and opened up into a large clearing. The air resounded with screams of pain, the whinnying of frightened horses, and voices yelling in a strange, harsh language. There was confusion and panic and the loud crashing of metal. By the glow of some flickering torches, he could see the blacksmith holding his long sword with both hands and lashing out at a tight semi-circle of soldiers who were attempting to get close to him. Some of the attackers held swords, while others carried torches. Tom Roper was an awesome figure in the red glow; his broad shoulders provided enormous strength to his blows, and with his back to a massive oak tree he seemed to be more than a match for his opponents.
Two bodies lay sprawled on the ground, twitching convulsively and moaning. John watched, as another man fell to the ground with an agonizing cry and then lay still. Meanwhile, more soldiers on horses galloped back along the track on the left hand side of the tree, where the blacksmith fought for his life. John approached on the right hand side and was behind most of the yelling, heaving bodies. His first thought had been to attack some of them from the back and try to create a diversion. But the arrival of the horsemen confused him and he waited in the shadows uncertain what to do.
The first rider, a large bearded figure with a short dark cape, reined in his horse and drew a short spear from the side of his saddle and edged the animal towards the swaying mass of men. Slowly, he drew back his arm and waited for a clear throw at the blacksmith, who continued to scythe the air with incredible speed and power.
Without a conscious decision, John ran towards the horseman, impelled by a force greater than himself. For a brief time, he was outside his own body, watching with a feeling of detachment as he saw himself swing the sword wildly at the back of the horseman at the very moment that the short spear was being thrown. The sword's blade cut deep into the flesh, just above the hip and the spear, deflected from its path, plunged into the neck of one of the torch-bearers. The rider jerked in a violent upward movement, before collapsing backwards over the flank of the horse.
John's sense of reality returned and he was aware of the ache in his shoulders and wrists, and watched, horrified, as dark red blood dripped from the blade of his sword. The noise of the fighting, the frantic shadows and the rearing of the riderless horse overwhelmed him. He turned to face an oncoming horseman, and ducked as something flew past his head. The leading rider, having failed with his spear, attempted to ride his frothing horse into the bewildered boy. John leapt to the side, and with his sword poked at the passing animal, wounding it in the side of its neck and causing it to swerve violently into the foot soldiers, adding to the confusion.
The other horsemen were galloped towards him, and in the confusion he fell backwards into a small thicket of saplings as a sword embedded itself, with a thud, into the trunk of a young elm just above his head. The horseman lost his grip on the weapon, and with a jarred arm, careered past, desperately reining back his horse with the other hand.
More horsemen galloped up, searching for the elusive enemy, and were attracted to the furious battle being fought around the oak tree. After losing another man, the foreigners were content to keep out of range of the merciless blade, and Tom Roper, unwilling to leave the security of his tree, stood boldly facing them. The horsemen, spears in hand, moved closer in a wide circle surrounding him.
"Throw down your sword or you will die now!" a rider called out. His voice boomed over the heads of the soldiers. To emphasize his words he threw his spear that plunged into the oak, a hand's width from Tom's head.
"I want me daughter back!" Tom bellowed. "I don't want to fight with 'ee. Give 'er back an I'll..."
"Throw down your sword!" the leader interrupted. "Now!"
The blacksmith stared at the ring of swords and the line of horsemen with their spears raised. He twisted his head as he searched for an escape, but there was none.
The leader spoke again. "You have fought well. Lay down your sword and I shall spare your life. If you do not, then the girl dies with you."
Tears of frustration welled up in Tom's eyes, and with a loud sigh he threw his weapon on the ground. The soldiers edged forward. They were uncertain of the power of their dangerous adversary. One grabbed the sword, while the others flattened Tom against the tree, the weapon against his throat.
The man who had picked up the sword let out a cry of alarm and shouted loudly in his harsh language. The leader urged his horse forward and grabbed Tom's sword and examined it carefully in the light of the flickering torches. He too let out an exclamation and began to speak quickly, then held up the sword for all to see. The soldiers pushed and shoved one another in their rush to look at the weapon and there was much excitement. Those holding the blacksmith laughed violently, their white teeth gleaming in the torchlight.
The horsemen appeared to have forgotten about John for the moment, and he turned and crept through the bushes and hid behind a gnarled tree. Once he was hidden from view he edged his way further up the track keeping well into the shadows, but still able to see what was going on. Some more horsemen passed him, as they moved back to join the others. By the light of their flickering torches, John could see that four of the horses were pulling a litter with the dead horse on it. The last rider was carrying the girl, who was tied hand and foot and draped over the front of the saddle like a large doll. The men talked excitedly and waved their swords as they spoke.
As soon as the riders had moved past his hiding place, John darted across the track and began to edge back on the other side, towards the flickering lights. Soon he was near enough to see clearly what was happening. The leader, a huge man dressed in black with a full red beard, was speaking to the assembled soldiers. He raised the blacksmith's sword above his head and a cheer went up from the group. He spoke again and the blacksmith was dragged forward; his arms had been bound tightly, and there was a rope around his neck.
"Where did you get this sword?" the leader demanded in a heavy accent.
"I was given it," Tom answered. He stared defiantly up at his captor.
"How long have you had it?" the man asked. His voice seemed unnaturally gentle as though he was coaxing a naughty child.
Tom hesitated and seemed to realize the importance of the question. "I can't remember," he replied slowly. "I got it from a man in the Crusade. I saved 'is life."
The leader stared at Tom without moving. "Who is the girl?" his eyes narrowed.
"She be my daughter."
"How old is she?"
"About sixteen."
"How long have you had the sword?" This time the question was sharp and aggressive.
"I told 'ee, I don't remember," Tom growled, straining at his ropes. Then, staggering a pace forward he yelled, "The sword ain't important t' me! Ye 'ave it for all I care! Ye can 'ave me an' all, just let my Gwenny go."
"Which came first, the girl or the sword?"
The blacksmith seemed to be struggling with the answer when there was a cry from the direction in which John had injured the spear-thrower. This started a general commotion as horsemen and soldiers rushed into the trees behind them. Almost immediately, there was a triumphant yell and two of the soldiers emerged, dragging between them a small figure, which sobbed and cried out alternately as the men prodded with their swords. The limping walk confirmed that it was Peter.
The two men spoke quickly to the leader and pointed to the trees as they did so. One of them waved a short sword. Peter was speechless with terror. His eyes rolled in his head, he uttered high-pitched whimpering noises and, when the men let go of him, he collapsed in a heap on the ground. The soldiers immediately jerked him upright, where he remained, twitching in all his limbs.
"Who are you?" the leader asked. His voice was slow and menacing.
"I be only Peter 'Alfcart, your 'onour. I ain't be doing no 'arm."
"Ha!" the leader exploded. "No harm! You nearly kill one of my men and wound another, and you talk of doing no harm!" He paused, "You don't look much of a fighter." He translated this to his men and a great laugh went up.
"I'm not," Peter protested. "I didn't kill no one. That sword, 'tain't mine. I found it in a tree, o'er there," he added, pointing to the thicket into which John had fallen only a few minutes before.
"Enough!" The huge man glanced at the sky. The first glimmers of light were appearing and a bird began to sing in a nearby tree.
John watched as the leader spoke to the two soldiers who were holding Peter. Then he beckoned to the horseman who was guarding Gwen. The soldier dismounted and walked his horse towards Peter.
"Who is this girl?" the leader demanded. He reached down from his horse and grabbed the hair of the unconscious girl, forcing her head back.
Peter gave a gasp. "That be Gwenny Roper. 'Is daughter." He pointed at the blacksmith.
The man released the girl's head so that it fell hard against the side of the horse.
"Leave her be, ye accursed infidel!" Tom roared. He tried to move forward, but the man holding the rope pulled hard and the noose bit tight into the blacksmith's thick neck. The other soldier kicked violently at the back of Tom's legs and he fell backwards in an ungainly heap, gasping for breath. A roar of approval went up from the soldiers.
"I could kill you all now," the leader said. He gave an order and a horse was brought forward with an enormous body strapped across it. John recognized it as the warrior who had died in the flower meadows. The rope around Tom's neck was loosened and he was dragged to his feet.
"Did you kill my brother?" The leader spoke slowly, his voice taut with emotion. His right hand slowly drew his sword from its scabbard.
"I've never seen 'im alive," Tom growled.
"You speak in riddles. Have you seen him before... alive or dead?"
Tom hesitated. The sky was growing lighter and John was aware of a great volume of bird song filling the glade.
The leader backed his horse towards the limp figure of the girl, still lying like a corpse across the saddle. He reached down and, with his left hand, once again lifted her head by the long black hair. The blacksmith watched, his eyes blazing, unable to do anything. One of the soldiers thrust a dagger to Tom's throat forcing his head up. Slowly the leader allowed the long strands to pass through his hand. He gripped the end of the hair so that the girl's head was suspended. He suddenly brought the sword down in a fierce slicing movement.
John let out a gasp of horror. He wanted to rush out and attack this vile man who had so mercilessly butchered the girl. But once again it seemed his body was not his own, and although his mind cried out for action, his limbs remained motionless.
The blacksmith struggled hopelessly. There was blood running down the side of his neck, and he made horrible gargling sounds.
The leader was sitting quite still on his horse, watching the blacksmith carefully. John relaxed when he saw the warrior was not holding the severed head of the girl, but merely a hank of her long black hair. The girl hung motionless over the side of the horse.
With a toss of his hand he threw the hair into the blacksmith's face. Then, he grabbed the remainder of the girl's hair and, once again, forced her head into an upward tilt. He raised his sword. "Speak or she dies!" he roared.
John was in no doubt the huge man intended to kill Gwen if he did not get an answer to his question. But, as in a bad dream, John found he was unable to move or cry out. He felt paralysed, yet his eyes and ears continued to function.
"All right," Tom gasped, "I'll tell 'ee what I knows. It be the truth, even if it ain't what ye wants to hear."
"Did you kill my brother?" the leader hissed.
"No, I never did. I saw 'im lying dead on the ground, 'an 'is horse with 'im. He 'ad a great wound in 'is chest. When I found 'im he'd been dead a while."
"Where is his sword?"
"He 'ad no sword when I found 'im. I swear to God I be telling the truth."
The leader raised the girl's head a bit higher, and her mouth fell open. He made small movements with his sword, raising and lowering the weapon. He kept his eyes fixed on the blacksmith.
"Why did you attack my men?"
"Ye 'ad my daughter! I didn't kill that man. I swear to ye!" The blacksmith was yelling his answers in an agony of desperation.
There was a long pause when nobody moved. Then very slowly the leader lowered Gwen's head and replaced his sword in its scabbard.
"There is a lot I need to know," he murmured. His cruel mouth formed into a mirthless smile. "I think the girl is important and I need to know a lot more about this friend, who gave you the sword."
The leader turned his horse and gave a series of abrupt orders. Then he approached Peter who had remained sniffing and trembling throughout. "What shall I do with you? he asked meditatively. "I think you are of little value."
While he spoke, the soldiers were moving quickly and efficiently around the glade, collecting the scattered weapons and laying the bodies of the dead soldiers in a line. The injured were bandaged and were helped onto horses, while a few with various wounds were tied on to the litter that had been used to carry the dead horse. The dead animal was stripped of its harness and saddle, and was dragged into the bushes.
Peter was staring fearfully at the man's red beard and thin, cruel mouth. "Don't kill me, sir!" he quickly blurted out. "I could be useful, sir. I knows the girl and 'im," he pointed to the subdued blacksmith.
There was a silence. "I knows all about this area; I knows all the people. I could be useful, sir," Peter pleaded.
The man sat unmoving, he regarded the boy with dark, unblinking eyes. Then he gave a short command and turned away. The two soldiers, who had been holding Peter, tied him with a rope and began to drag him towards the line of dead bodies. Peter screamed in terror.
John reacted to Peter's scream, and it was as though his body had suddenly been released from a vice. Even while the sound echoed in his head, he was aware of a group of soldiers moving towards his hiding place. They were carrying one of their dead comrades. As the group of men approached, John flattened himself against the earth and hoped that his brown tunic would not be noticed in the gloom of the dawn light. The soldiers quickly stripped the body of all clothing and removed rings from the fingers, then they wrapped the corpse in a piece of material and bound it tight with strong ropes.
The men were within a few paces of where he was hiding and had stopped beneath a large beech tree. The first man attempted to climb the tree, but was unable to get a purchase on the lowest branch, which was just beyond his reach. The rest of the group lowered their burden and formed a platform on which the first man could stand. During this diversion, John was able to move further back into the forest, for he realized that the climber would have a clear view of his hiding place. As he edged back, he could see another group carrying a similar roped bundle into the forest.
He clambered slowly around until he was in a position where he could observe what the soldiers were doing, without the climber being able to see him. The first man clambered high into the tree and sat astride a broad limb. He held in his hand a rope that he dropped over the branch. The men at the bottom began to pull on this rope, and John saw that the other end was attached to the corpse that began an uncertain ascent up into the great tree. The man at the top directed the body and used the rest of the rope to secure it firmly to the branch. This took some time, and the soldiers at the bottom became increasingly agitated. Eventually, the first man climbed down and was helped to the ground, and all of them hurried back to the glade without a backward glance.
John wondered what would happen in a few months when the ropes became slack and the body was dislodged by the wind and the carrion birds. Some traveller was in for an unpleasant shock.
When all evidence of the fighting had been hidden, the group reformed and the leader uttered a weird chant during which every soldier prostrated himself on the ground and repeated certain words. The ritual ended with the leader holding up the golden sword towards each of the trees in which a dead soldier was hidden. Then he gave some brief commands and the party extinguished all torches and moved off in a southerly direction.
The soldiers conducted themselves like a well-disciplined army. Two horsemen cantered ahead, while pairs of foot soldiers fanned out into the trees on both sides. John was able to count sixteen horsemen, at least two of whom were wounded, with a further three figures strapped to the litter, which was pulled by two horses. The blacksmith had certainly made his mark! John had not been able to count the foot soldiers, but there were at least thirty and maybe more. In the grey light of the early morning, he could distinguish the burly shape of the blacksmith. A rope around his neck was connected to the saddle of one of the riders. There was one horse carrying the dead brother of the leader, but there was no sign of Gwen. John was straining his eyes to see where she was, when he noticed a slim figure staggering along in the midst of a party of foot soldiers. Gwen had obviously recovered enough to be able to walk. There was no sign of Peter.
John sat down against a tree and rubbed his face. What was he to do? Peter was dead, and the blacksmith and his daughter were captured, and here he was in the middle of a forest. He had seriously wounded one man and had been responsible for injuring at least two others; and his sword had killed one man by itself. Even if he found help, who would believe such a fantastic tale? An army of foreigners, magic spells, swords that moved by themselves, and dead people in trees: he would be called a liar.
He thought of Peter and his eyes welled up. Peter had not been without his faults, but he had been the only real friend that John remembered having. Before he arrived at the old woman's cottage, John's life had been a succession of brief encounters with people who, though kind in their fashion, failed to make any impression on him. He had a dim memory of a large, cold building occupied only by women dressed in brown robes and hoods. Then he had lived with a tall man in a rambling mansion. There was a long hall, and on one wall a white banner with a vivid red cross... something had happened, but he could not remember what. At times he felt he could recognize places. Much of what the old woman taught him seemed familiar, but at other times it was as though his life had begun from the time he arrived at the solid, oak door of her lonely cottage.
As he sat thinking, he was conscious of his misery fading in intensity and he began slowly to experience a sense of wellbeing and confidence. The old woman taught him that positive thought was the only way to cope with difficulties: Speak your mind, she said, for words make bright the gloomy path of life. Once again, John regretted the casual way he had treated the old woman's teachings.
"There are two things I can do," he said aloud. "I can go to sleep and in the morning return to the old woman, or try to help the blacksmith and his daughter and also get revenge for Peter's death." He paused, and in his mind's eye he could picture himself, sword in hand, defending... not his dead friend, nor the blacksmith, but the girl with the black hair. "Gwenny," he murmured and found himself smiling. There was no longer any doubt as to what he should do. He picked up the sword and, forgetting his tiredness and his hunger, began to trot in the direction that the enemy had taken.
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