The Ravens’ Banquet

by Clifford Beal

  Christoph shot me a knowing glance and I knew that the siege of Göttingen was on his lips. We both knew that Imperial miners had drowned by the score in their attempts to tunnel under the walls along the river there. I shook my head to warn him that he should bide his time and, though it was not in his habit, he obeyed me in this. More likely he too reasoned that the intelligence might be of better use to him later.

  “Rosemunde,” I said, calling her name for the first time, “you have not told of how you got from there to here. Why have you left your village?”

  She paused and straightened up her back. “You ask many questions that are of little concern to you.”

  “Don’t feign insult, woman,” said Christoph as he sat down next to the fire. “It’s more than a little curious for a gaggle of goodwives to be on their own in a mountain forest. Answer my Corporal.”

  She laughed. It was lusty, not false, and from deep in the heart. And there was no whiff of fear upon it.

  “You’re both a long way from home. It’s not for you to ask questions of me.”

  Around us, at the edge of the encroaching wood, I glimpsed two of Rosemunde’s sisters, cradling their bows, ready spanned and taut.

  Christoph, an old soldier and therefore a wise one, took notice of our flanks and held his tongue.

  Relenting somewhat, Rosemunde spoke again.

  “We have banded together, those that you see here, to work as woodsmen until our menfolk return. Why so far in this wood? That is no secret. To make it the harder for the burghers of Goslar to stop us, that is why.”

  “But where are your babes?” I asked her.

  “I have already been too free with my tongue,” said Rosemunde. She paused. “We have none,” she then added, her voice low. “You will speak with the Oma this night. Perhaps she will see fit to tell you more.”

  “Oma? And whose grandmother is that?” asked Christoph smiling at Rosemunde. “Mine or yours?”

  “All of ours,” replied Rosemunde, fixing him with an eye so clear and so cold that it took me aback and swept the grin from away Christoph’s mouth.

  And that was the end of it, for she would say no more.

  Hartmann and Callens, another soldier who I did not know until yesterday’s events, trudged off to the hovel they had spent the last night. They were intent on mending their tattered rig before it grew dark. So too, the other three comrades wandered away to the far side of the encampment, griping of ill tidings. But it was more the loss of the soldier’s routine that confounded them and made them ill at ease.

  I tarried near the fire, slumping down against a tree stump, my head in my hands. From time to time, I watched as the women stoked the flames upwards, and then set a cauldron upon the boil. Rosemunde joined in the work, and a few times I caught her eye as she kept an eye on me.

  I half was taken away by sleep, crouched near the warmth of the fire. The image of the Green Man came to me again and I startled myself to wakefulness, shaking. The light above began to fade, and the air grew chill. My back, covered by my damp shirt and doublet, grew cold even as my feet and legs grew too hot.

  A chill wind blew through the clearing and rustled the boughs of the trees surrounding us. And the noise of the maddened greenery brought forth again in my mind the vision of the Green Man: the dead and green Samuel. I could not rid my memory of that jet eye fixing me not with malice, but rather with a knowingness that shivered me.

  “They are not what they seem to be...”

  And I fell into a deeper and more disturbed reverie where armies warred, trees talked, and women usurped their men.

  “EAT IF YOUR bellies wish it!” cried out one of the sisters.

  I swallowed up my parsnip gruel and the gristle-shot meat that lurked in it, so hungry had I grown with the afternoon. Yet it was meager fare. When we had finished, darkness was nearly upon us, and I watched as the women brought forth torches to light in the cooking fire. And with a gesture from Rosemunde, we found ourselves surrounded.

  “It is time,” she said to us. “You must meet the Oma and listen to what she tells. As must we all.”

  Christoph looked at me with narrowed eyes and I could not say then whether he would rise and plunge a dagger into her or else obey her command.

  Perhaps it was because we all longed to know what was truly going on in this place but we followed with hardly a word spoken. The procession took us into the woods, but not far. The torches snapped and crackled, their light illuminating the roof of green above. The women moved quietly; we in our boots thumped along, cursing softly when the errant root caught up an unsure foot.

  At length, I could see the lead torchbearer halt and move off to the side of the path. The light cast its glow upon a rudely fashioned hovel, larger still than all the others.

  Rosemunde came forward from behind us and approached the entry. It had no door but instead a kersey curtain hung from the top to keep out the weather. She drew the curtain aside and beckoned to me and the men to enter. Her face, half in shadow, half in strong light, showed her features starkly. That bowed nose, high ruddy cheekbones, thin lips and a well-lined brow, these I glimpsed as I passed through the portal, close by her. But her eyes, her eyes met mine in that instance, and I felt compelled to turn away my gaze. Then I was inside, my sight failing in the gloom of the hovel.

  My nose was hit by a noisome smell, the stench of unwashed clothing mixed with the mustiness of the forest floor. The air was close and overheated, a stifling fug. The others followed behind me and suddenly a flame grew up in front of us. A lamp had been lit by the occupant.

  Still masked by shadow, I could just glimpse a figure seated on the ground. As my sight grew better, I came to see the one called Oma. She sat swaddled in a mountain of rags, her hooded head poking through the top. She raised her face to look upon us, and I found myself staring into the eyes of a withered crone, ancient as stone.

  Slowly, her hand stretched out, a spindly bony thing with nails like talons. I felt the hairs on my nape stand up as she pointed a gnarled finger, like the twig of a birch.

  Rosemunde crept forward and gently pressed the hand of the old hag to her face.

  “Oma, we have brought the soldiers that we have told you of,” she said quietly. “We have fed them and seen to their wounds as you did command. Tell us what you will.”

  The voice that issued forth from the heap of cloth was raspy with age but not frail.

  “Yes, soldiers. That is clear even to my old eyes. Soldiers that have lost their way and lost their battle?”

  Her orbs almost protruded from out of her wrinkled skull and she leveled her gaze at each of us in turn. Indeed, squatting there, she struck me as nothing less than a monstrous toad, and the image from my dream of weeks ago came back to me at that moment.

  “I look after my daughters here,” she went on, “and they look after me. I have dwelt near the Rammelsberg all of my life and know it well. In that way I can show them where things are, where to go, and where not to go.”

  She had not a tooth in her head but her voice was strong. Around her I could see bowls and vessels of clay, painted grey and blue. Off in a corner stood what appeared to be a small statue of the Holy Virgin as one would find in a Romish church. But before I could make sure of what I saw in the dim light, Rosemunde kneeled next to the crone and obscured my view. I turned to look at my men: they were throwing glances at each other in the half-light, not knowing what to do or say. Christoph stood farthest back, swallowed by the shadows that we threw upon the wall, and I could not see his face. How did he judge what was playing out before us?

  “We have little worth stealing, of that you must have now come to see,” said the Oma to us all. “But here you will not come to harm and no war will find you in this wood. If you wish it, you may stay here and help us in our daily toil.”

  Christoph let out a laugh, quickly followed by Hartmann and the others. Rosemunde made to stand but the crone’s hand stayed her.

  The Oma raised her voice enoug
h to drown the half-hearted mirth.

  “I am not in jest. If deserters you be, then the rope awaits you. If you be valiant soldiers, then the end is much the same if not the means. Here you are undiscovered and safe, and in good company.”

  “Old woman,” I said, unsure of myself, “your kindness is gladly received and none of us here will deny that if it were not for your daughters, I and my comrades would be dead these two days. But we have no good reason to stay here. Give us some bread and beer or water that we may take our leave on the morrow.”

  The crone smiled her toothless grin as she fixed me in her gaze, head and neck craned upwards, her steel blue eyes bright.

  “So young and handsome a man and so eager to be back in battle. Have you not campaigned enough to know that you will never find there what you seek? A piece of silver plate here and a few coins there, but no real treasure to be found. You and your brethren may go as you please. We would not seek to detain you. Your path is yours to choose.”

  And she bowed her head and pulled the hood down over her eyes.

  And I felt then a certain dread, knowing a little, but not knowing much. But knowing that all was not as simple as the Oma’s honeyed words implied.

  “They are not what they seem to be…”

  XI

  The Furnace

  September 1626

  HARTMANN’S FACE WAS a mix of surprise, anger, and disappointment. His jaw, by now covered in fine blonde whiskers; fell down a little, his lips trying to give voice to his thoughts.

  “You’re staying behind?” he repeated back to me, looking away to Callens and the other two soldiers.

  “I’m not well enough to travel down the mountain again, not at least for a few days yet,” I lied. “It’s for the best that the rest of you seek out the regiment and not wait upon me. I’ll follow when I am able.”

  Hartmann cast his worried visage from comrade to comrade, still trying to manage his confusion at my news.

  “Aye, well… we shall wait it out with you if it’s no longer than a day or two,” he plucked up the courage to say, not waiting for the others to speak.

  Callens nodded while the others voiced their support with a noise or two. Christoph, sitting on the ground off to one side, merely watched us all while keeping his silence.

  “The longer you stay here the further the army moves away to the north,” I said. “If you and the others embark now, there’s a passable chance that you can find the Danes just beyond Lütter. That chance lessens if we all remain even one more day. I shall make my own way.”

  Hartmann thought about this, pulling at his long nose.

  “If you will it, Corporal…”

  “These women have not a care if I remain and will give me food,” I said. “Get yourselves back and relate what’s happened. Tell them that I am no more than a day or two behind you.”

  “So be it,” muttered Hartmann, turning his back and walking to his hovel. “I think you’re mad to stay up here but I won’t drag you out if you don’t want me to.”

  The others made to follow and Callens called out, “Come Christoph, you need to gather your rig.”

  Christoph kept his place and waved his hand.

  “Nay, I am staying too, I think. After that last fight I’m in no hurry to find the saddle again. I’m with the Englishman on this.”

  Callens looked at me and then back to Christoph. He spat on the ground and walked off to catch up the others.

  Christoph laughed and slowly pulled himself up, shaking the dead leaves from his already blackened breeches. I watched him, confounded by his pronouncement and suspicious of his wish to remain behind with me. He did not think well of me, that I already knew. But he didn’t think well of anyone else either.

  “Why do you stay?” I asked him quietly.

  He smiled, those hooded eyes narrowing as he grinned.

  “You have not kept the truth with your comrades, Corporal,” he said. “I know your thoughts are full of something, but, I’ll wager, not a scheme for getting back to the regiment. And your bruised noggin is no worse for wear than my own. Tell me nothing if you wish, but I smell something in this place – as do you – and I will find it when you do.”

  “Then you read into my words that which is not there,” I replied, staring him full down.

  Christoph laughed aloud and shook his head.

  “Nay, Corporal, I know you better than that after all these months.” And he laughed again as he watched my discomfort before he finally lapsed into a retching cough. Again he shook his head, still grinning, and walked away, leaving me alone.

  Over at their hovels, I could hear raised voices and Christoph cursing back at the others. For in truth, his desertion had not gone down well. By the time I approached, Christoph was standing, fists clenched over the prostrate form of Hartmann. He swore again and spat upon Hartmann’s coat, bidding him to get up if he wanted more. But there was no challenge. The poison was now truly steeped in the air around us, and slowly, without a word, Hartmann arose and walked away. The others followed and Christoph and I found ourselves alone once again.

  “It’s you and me now, good comrade,” he said. “You, me, and this forest.”

  And, in spite of the sun that shone warm down through the boughs above, I was chilled. What course had I embarked upon? Of all the souls of my Company, Fortuna had paired me with him. I would rather share a bed with an adder.

  An hour or two passed, and as the sun drew high overhead, I kept company only with my own dark thoughts. Christoph had disappeared. I watched Rosemunde and a few of her sisters give over water and bread to Hartmann’s small party and they exchanged words. Hartmann was shaking his head and waving them off, but the women were insistent upon some point. I grew intrigued and hurriedly joined them.

  “Nay, we will not stay and wait for the others,” growled Hartmann as he stuffed the bread into his snapsack.

  Rosemunde stepped back, angered by the rebuff.

  “You’re foolish to leave now, to leave when we offer you safety. But we will not hold you back.”

  “I know not what else you offer, woman,” replied Hartmann. “But we take this bread and water with thanks. And we go.”

  He gave me one last bitter stare. He could not fathom why I should remain behind. And thus, the last of my squadron turned and walked away, down the sloping forest floor and headed north.

  As I stood, watching them grow further and further distant, disappearing into the trees, I felt empty and very much alone. I had forsaken my oath and all I had laboured for. And I did not know why. I hated myself even as I knew they hated me.

  “Why have you stayed behind?” asked Rosemunde as she stood beside me. “You were the one who said you wished to join the army again.”

  I turned to look upon her. A streak of black soot marked her forehead, her long hair loose, beset with tangles, and sprinkled with leaves. Yet her eyes shone sharp, and what lay behind was more than the simple mind of a peasant. There was Purpose there besides.

  I answered her honestly.

  “I don’t know why I’m staying.”

  “Then you must remain until it is revealed to you,” she said softly, before turning away.

  I looked on the others that stood with her. Strange creatures all, dirty and brown, dressed in rags. And they looked back at me, distrusting, a soldier in their midst. But why then did they want us to stay? Only Rosemunde showed neither fear nor favour.

  I PASSED NOT too well that night, plagued by ill thoughts between fitful bouts of sleep, sleep filled with wretched phantasms. Christoph had stolen in after the moon was set, saying not a word to me but lying upon the bed of leaves. He was soon snoring, untroubled as a child. As light grew, and birds began to make their song, I grew drowsy, having fretted myself into exhaustion, and finally nodded off.

  Christoph was shaking me to wakefulness.

  “Come on, we must follow them,” he croaked at me, his voice rough with the early damp.

  “What say you?” I pr
otested. “Follow who? Rosemunde? Why?”

  “Just get your arse off the ground and have a piss if you must. I don’t want to let them get too far ahead.”

  Christoph yanked off the reeking blanket that covered me. I was cold and my shirt sodden. But I heeded him and drew on my doublet and buttoned up, fumbling about with my breeches and points.

  “Fetch your cassock! Make haste!” he demanded.

  We stooped and left the hovel. With Christoph leading ahead, we loped off in search of the women. Christoph’s back was hunched, and like some woodland demon he hopped from tree trunk to tree trunk, careful lest we be discovered. As I watched his sword slapping against his thigh, I only then realised that I, in my enforced haste, had forgotten mine. Christoph paused, kneeling behind an ancient oak, and I caught him up.

  “In God’s name, what are we doing?” I hissed.

  “Finding out what they don’t want us to know. You desire to discover their secret as much as I, Rikard.”

  He had called me by my Christian name not many times afore.

  “They are well-armed,” I said. “They could kill us for spying on them.”

  “They could have killed us long ago if they had a mind to. Come on!”

  And we were off again, crushing brambles and searching for the faint path that gave proof of earlier, and most regular, passage through the forest.

  After a while, we stopped again as the sound of wood chopping came to our ears. We crept closer until the sisters were glimpsed, busy at their labours. Christoph’s head darted like a cat in the underbrush as he sought vantage through the greenery where we crouched. His breath was heavy as he listened and watched.

  I saw all of them. They were hewing boughs of beech and piling them high. In a clearing was what looked like a great pyre. Large as a cart, and half as high as a man, the pyre was fashioned of wood, arrayed in a circle and covered with animal skins on top. From the center of the wood pile, smoke did issue forth, and at its base, one woman worked with a bellows to stoke the unseen flames at its heart.