The Ravens’ Banquet

by Clifford Beal

  “Where are our weapons?” I asked quietly as we sat together on the hard bare ground near the fire.

  Three of the soldiers appeared to ignore me, more intent upon licking the last of the broth from their bowls.

  Christoph tossed his bowl on the ground and wiped his greasy mouth with the sleeve of his unbuttoned doublet. “We have some, but not weapons for all,” he mumbled.

  “What of my sword?” I asked, only then remembering it.

  “We have it,” replied Christoph. “Over with two others in one of the hovels. I have my carbine and a few cartridges.”

  It was only then I remembered my pistol, thrust into my boot before I started to climb the slope. But, of course, it was no longer there, having tumbled out during the fight.

  I looked around us again, watching the peasant women carrying wood, buckets, and moving in and out of their hovels. Were they goatherds? I saw no beasts of any sort. And why would farmers live in a wood? I could only think that they were charcoal-makers, their menfolk off into deeper forest to bring out larger boughs of fallen oak or beech.

  Hartmann saw me watching. “This be no hamlet that I have seen the likes of. Where are the children? There are none to be found. And where hide the menfolk? I’ll tell you what goes on here: these be masterless women. There be no menfolk.”

  One of the others cackled, the implied lewdness of the remark setting his imagination to fire. A nod from a comrade and raised brows proved the point was taken.

  “We must speak with them,” I said. “And we have to find out what has befallen the army. I don’t wish to stay up here for longer than we need to regain some strength.”

  One of the soldiers, his head hanging, spoke softly. “I have no other rigging than what hangs off of me and even this I’ve pissed and shat in. I only want to find our camp. I want to go back”

  No one else spoke.

  “Fear not,” I said, “We’ll start down for Lütter village come morning.”

  And as the sun moved across the trees, we sat and filled our bellies again, and drinking our fill of the clear water that the old woman offered up to us. But the other women, those who had banished our pursuers, were nowhere to be seen. A black pig rooted round the camp, the only creature that was intent on business. Christoph directed the toe of a boot at its snout whenever it wandered too close.

  I roused myself after a time, and being taken of a necessary, made my way out from the encampment and into the forest to take my ease. My head had not yet ceased its clamouring, and with slow measure I ventured into the wood, moss-encrusted branches snapping under my feet as so many old bones.

  Like a blind old fool, I crouched with arms stretched out before me, warding the tendrils of greenery that sought to bind me.

  The forest floor slanted gradually downwards and to my left, covered in ancient beech, oak, pine, alder, and a dozen other trees not familiar to my knowledge. I was a drunkard, dizzy, tottering from arbour to arbour, and grappling for support among these silent and unmoved denizens.

  It grew very quiet and even the sound of my unsteady footfalls seemed to be swallowed up by the soft ground beneath me. Here and there were black pools of stagnant water, stinking in the summer heat, and reminders of the sodden damp season of campaigning I had endured. I had, in those moments, become aware, or more exactly awakened to, a feeling that I was being watched. A common crotchet to any man who’s been alone in a wood. And the strangeness of it quickly set the short hairs of my neck standing up. I shivered in my sweat-soaked doublet and paused for a moment.

  Here, among the green and the muck seemed as good as any place to shit, and I untrussed the few tasselled points that were yet unbroken and slid down my breeches. Holding fast the tree in front, I squatted and did my business. Abusing a shrub close at hand, I tore off some leaves and cleaned my backside. While tying my breeches again, the nagging conceit hit me full again that I was under the gaze of someone or something.

  I turned back the way I believed I had come, and reached out to a sapling to pull myself along. The closeness of the forest now descended on me most strong, and I halted. Stillness and shadows filled my view, the sun desperate to convince me that it yet lived, somewhere above, beyond the forest.

  As I raised a foot to move forward again, the forest floor quickly rose up in front of me; a tangle of briar, verdant ivy, black roots, and rotting leaves, animated by a hand unseen. There, a few paces in front of my face, it stood, barring my way. Its mane of ivy rustled as it pulled itself up to full height and I stood fast, struck dumb with terror.

  As tall as a man, it sent forth a stench of turned earth and corruption. I looked into a dark visage, the face of some man thing that poked from this mantle of vegetation. Its nostrils and mouth sprouted running vines that spilled downwards while the eyes beheld me, black and unmoving. And when it spoke, it was the voice of Samuel that issued from its lips.

  “Where goes Master Treadwell?” came the words, the voice dull and muffled. “Has the bread of Life grown stale for thee, these past days?”

  “Sweet Jesus, Samuel, why do you hound me?” I said in a dry whisper. I half believed that it was my head wound that spoke and was the cause of this thing that stood before me. Yet even the rubbing of my eyes would not rid me of the sight of him.

  “Leave me alone,” I pleaded. “You’re the one who tried to kill me! What could I have done to save you? You abandoned me!”

  The sweet smell of the Green Man made my stomach sick. I leaned against a lichenscarred tree and closed my eyes. Still, Samuel remained.

  “Why are you in such haste to leave this place.” He asked. “Your army is fled the field of Lütter and Tilly’s men now drink the town.”

  I knew in my heart he spoke the truth. The King of Denmark had staked everything on one last throw, and he had lost.

  “What has happened?” I asked of him. For this Spirit knew what I could not hope to know.

  A groaning sigh issued forth from the mouth of the Green Man, shivering the vines that embraced his head. “Valiantly your army fought, but the enemy shattered the Danish centre and the cavalry and the king fled the field. He sulks this day at Wolfenbüttel, away to the north with the remnants of his once great host. The Cause that you followed, Master Treadwell, is lost. The Emperor at Vienna now holds this land again.”

  The gentle sting of tears came to my eyes. I could scarce recall what that Cause was that I had signed on to so long ago. I had lost everything but my life, bereft of companions or comfort, and abandoned in a strange land.

  “What of Jacob and Andreas?” I asked.

  “They both yet live,” replied the Green Man slowly, as if speaking laboured him.

  I nodded, still clinging to my tree. “I am going to find them all. I must. I hold the colour of the company in my boot. It must be returned.”

  “You have many leagues’ journey to find the Danish host with the enemy between you and them. You have lost your horse, and your arms.”

  “There is nothing else I can do,” I croaked.

  “There is always another way,” he replied, the leaves of his mantle rustling. “Think well upon your situation. Fortuna reigns not only on the battlefield but also in this very wood that surrounds you.”

  “There’s nothing here but trees… and you,” I said.

  The Green Man was patient. “And more besides. Look to those of the weaker sex. To those that have spared your life.”

  “What can they offer me? They’re living in hovels of sticks and vanish into the air.”

  The Green Man’s words were hard fought, as if the ivy that entwined his head was also choking his voice.

  “They are... not what they seem to be,” he rasped. “Fortuna dwells with them. Good bye to you... I can tell thee no more.”

  “Speak plainly, Samuel,” I said, still fearful, but also tiring of his riddles and jabberment.

  But a cry from afar turned my head. Coming toward me was a band of women, those same souls who had vanquished the Croats one da
y ago. They came quickly to my side, and one stepped forward to take my elbow.

  I half turned back to look at Samuel. But the Green Man was not there, only the tangle of greenery that everywhere blanketed the forest floor.

  I turned again to look on my rescuer. She was as tall as I, long honey tresses untied and unkempt, framing a long dark face. Green eyes looked into mine, and she inclined her head slightly, gesturing that I should move forward. She was possessed of sharp cheeks and a proud Roman nose, the whole that while not pretty was not hard-favoured either.

  “Come with us,” she said, softly, but her tone was not offering a choice. “It is not safe to wander when your head wound is yet unhealed.”

  “Didn’t you see him?” I asked, my head suddenly aching again.

  “There is naught else in this place but us,” she replied, pulling on my arm. “Your wound troubles you.”

  I released my mossy tree and stepped forward with my new support of flesh and blood.

  “How are you called?” I asked her.

  “My name,” she replied, stopping for a moment and fixing me in her gaze, “is Rosemunde.”

  X

  The Sisters

  August 1626

  The Tower

  Twelfth of July 1645

  CHARLES STUART IS a fool. Though I write these words and know them to be treasonous, I’ve shed enough blood in his Cause to earn the right to do so. But I am the bigger fool. It was I who undertook the correspondence to the Danish prince, a naked artifice to gain favour with the King through his craven advisors.

  My brother William tells me this day that my examination is to be held over for two more days because of other pressing business before the Committee. I believe that the likes of me must be but a small diversion to their more crucial offices of fabricating onerous new laws in contravention of England’s ancient constitution. I am not surprised that they leave me to wait their pleasure.

  “They have read everything that you wrote,” said my brother, exasperated by my evident stupidity. “All of the letters. You openly invited discussion with the Danes for the purpose of their sending regiments here to fight alongside the King’s forces against his elected Parliament. Worse than this, you suggested safe ports where they could make entry without encountering opposition. Thirdly, you intimated that your motive in beginning the correspondence came from the highest authorities.”

  I nodded. “Aye, I’ve written it all. And those foppish clowns, Lord Digby and the others, all playing at soldier. They managed to reveal all, to friend and enemy alike. But I’m the one who bears the brunt.”

  My brother shook his head at me. “You sound hard-done, Richard. Do you deny that this was, by all definitions, a treasonous act to incite invasion of your own country?”

  I scoffed aloud. “No more treasonous than to raise arms against our God-given Sovereign. Simpleton that he is.”

  It was William’s turn to scoff. “That is disingenuous, brother. Our Cause is against those councilors who advise the King, not the King himself. The King must reconcile with his Parliament for this war to end.”

  “Rogues,” I muttered. “Rogues and mealy-mouthed Saints in concordance. That is what your Cause has given us.”

  William came round to my side and knelt next to my stool, close to my face.

  “Your loyalty is an unrequited one. Think upon that. Are any of them worthy of your sacrifice, excepting His Majesty?”

  I thought about this. “Nay,” I replied. “Not a soul among them.”

  “Mark me, you have but one defence in this matter. You must make full disclosure to the Committee. You are to tell them that your past service to the Danish crown was wellknown and that the King’s advisors set you upon the correspondence in question. Against your better council.”

  “That… would be an untruth,” I said quietly.

  “Would it be? Search your heart, brother. Yours is the soldier’s defence. You serve those you are sworn to and obey their commands. It is they who have not upheld their part of the contract.”

  His words touched an unhealed wound, a scabrous patch on my soul that still leached poison into my heart. The soldier’s defence, denunciation, and accusal. My brother did not know that I had embarked down that road before.

  “I am a soldier, yes,” I said turning to face him, “but so too, a commander of men. It was a decision made of free will, my own free will.”

  My brother’s glare softened a bit. He gripped my shoulder with firmness and for a moment I felt the years of bitterness melt away. But I held back.

  “Richard,” he said, “You can be a soldier or you can be a martyr. They will assuredly hang you for a traitor unless you seize your chance when it is given. Save yourself.”

  I pushed William’s hand from my shoulder and shook my head. I find myself sick at heart. I don’t know who to trust anymore. Parliament would use me as their cudgel against the Cause I have sworn to defend. Of that, I’m certain.

  I RETURNED TO the encampment in the company of those strange women, who, unlike the perfumed whores of Nienburg and Hannover, stank of stale sweat and woodfire. These rustic sisters struck me as like those of some clerical Order. They said little, lived in poverty, and yet seemed directed by a higher Purpose. Who were these daughters of Artemis, secreted here by some unknown Design?

  I was led back to my comrades again who, it appeared, had not made much of my disappearance. They were more of a mind to contemplate the arrival of the sisters rather than my deliverance from the forest.

  The sisters around me were seven, dressed in russet hues, hair uncovered, sandalshod. Of the others Christoph had spoken of, I knew not. These women looked at us with no fear or worry in their eyes, which, I confess, took me as passing strange. Every woman ought to fear a soldier. This was unnatural boldness as it was unseemly in the fairer sex.

  Rosemunde spoke. Not to Hartmann and the others, but most straight to Christoph, the challenge conveyed without hesitation through her large green eyes.

  “He was wandering and could have come to harm. But we have found him again.”

  Christoph seemed too confounded to reply or curse.

  There was great unease here, to be sure. They knew not quite which card to play nor, in truth, did we. None were, by any reckoning, mere slips of girls. Brown as berries, faces bony and well-lined, all were of marrying age and a few well past it. Their countenances told of hard toil and tears, and the hardships of their past could be read as one would draw a finger along a map.

  I tried to push the fantastical image of Samuel from my mind’s eye. Why had the shades of the dead begun again to follow me as at Plymouth in my youth?

  Do not tell a soul, boy! Do y’ hear me? Don’t tell anybody.

  “Goodwife,” I began, looking at Rosemunde. “We owe you thanks for our safety and for the sharing of your food. Tell us what brings you into this place, so far from village or town.”

  The women glanced at Rosemunde.

  “It was you and your soldiers that trespassed here,” she answered. “So if fair be fair, then tell us of your intentions.” Her voice was hard and no smile adorned her words.

  Christoph pushed forward.

  “She gives a bold reply, Englishman. Everybody here knows that these forests belong to the Dukes of Braunschweig and not to any peasant folk.”

  I placed my arm across his chest to bar his move.

  “Have a care, Christoph,” I said to him quietly.

  He growled an oath but held his ground.

  I turned back to Rosemunde. “We’ll leave this place as soon as we’re whole again. As soon as we can. We will return to our regiment. That is the truth of it and if you and yours will spare us some fare this evening, we’ll trouble you no more.”

  She looked from Christoph to me.

  “We’ve borne your presence this long and another night matters little to us. Stay if you will.”

  “And where live your families?” I asked of her. “Your menfolk… we have not seen any thes
e two days.”

  Rosemunde shifted her stance and smote me with a hard glare. A woman more sharp and untrusting I had not happened upon yet in my adventures.

  “Menfolk you may not have seen, but don’t reason there’s any advantage in it for you. We look after ourselves as good as any can. Or has your memory suffered from the blow to your skull?”

  Christoph laughed heartily. “Nay, woman, we have good recollection of your handiwork!”

  Rosemunde nodded. “Then bear us no ill intent and nor shall we to you. We have dwelt here in this place for some months and so do call it our own.”

  “And where exactly is this place,” I asked.

  “This is the Kroeteberg,” said Rosemunde, “a few leagues west of the Rammelsberg and the town of Goslar. Know you the Rammelsberg?”

  “Aye,” spoke up Hartmann. “It is where all the gold and silver in the Empire is mined.”

  Rosemunde took no notice of Hartmann’s reply but unslung the sack that she carried and walked to the fire with it, dropping it to the ground. She quietly spoke to her sisters and the band fell away at her command, some off to the hovels of sticks, others back to the forest.

  We followed her to the fire.

  “And what of the Rammelsberg?” asked Christoph.

  She reached down and opened the bundle, revealing faggots for the fire. Picking up a log she tossed it onto the low flames and prodded it into place with her foot.

  “Our men were miners there, and we lived at the foot of the mountain. There is a small village that lays a stone’s throw from the back gate of Goslar. One day, this past spring, soldiers came to the Rammelsberg. They took away many men, pressed into the service of the Emperor. We were told that the army needed men to dig saps, to tunnel under fortresses and the like. We never heard from our husbands again.”