"Sit! Sit down by me here in the lamplight and tell me of your work," she urged us, shifting her pile of rags and opening her arms.
Christoph shot me a glance. He looked wary as he sank down on his haunches the better to rise quick-like if needs must. I did the same, my arms resting on my knees, my eyes straining to see the Oma’s face beneath her cowl. Beside her on her rush mat, the little statues stood as before. Yet now I knew that they were not the Blessed Virgin but Fraw Holt. Holda. The White Lady.
Rosemunde leaned over and grasped the Oma’s spindly hand and pressed it briefly to her lips. “The soldiers would beg your indulgence, Oma,” she said quietly. “They wish to know what you will of them now that winter is coming.”
Christoph didn’t wait for the Oma to speak but made his demands as if an army stood at his back.
“The matter is clear, old woman,” he said, his voice calm but rough and low. “We want our share of the silver for which we’ve broken our backs this last fortnight. More to the point, I don’t see why my comrade and I can’t journey to Goslar and make arrangements to exchange it for coin. The stuff is worth nothing as it is. You know that. Why were you mining the silver before we arrived, if not to make your own fortune? For that you’ll need a coin-clipper or a fence. I reckon I can find one in Goslar and Goslar’s only a league or two away.”
Oma cackled at his insolence.
Christoph smiled back, his crooked teeth showing like a rat’s.
“You laugh, old woman. Maybe it’s because you already know who to pass the silver to in Goslar. You live like nuns out here in the wild but this doesn’t fool me. There be method in all this mummery. And I think you’ve hatched out your scheme long ago, a long time before those Croats chased us up this mountain.”
“A soldier's distrust is hard to overcome,” replied the Oma. “Have we not given you our confidence, told you we would share what we have found?”
“Then where is the silver you mined before we came?” shot back Christoph. “And where lays the silver we’ve made these last days? That should be mine, I reckon.”
“It is safe,” said Rosemunde, angry with Christoph’s hectoring. “But only Oma and I know where it lies. When the time is right then all shall be given what is due to them.”
“Oh, aye then! Where is your confidence in us?” he replied, the smile never leaving his face.
“Rest easy, child,” said the Oma to Rosemunde as she sat stone like, unmoved by Christoph's bluster. “If the soldiers wish it, I will let them divide the silver and take what they think they deserve. But only when the time is right. Then they may journey to Goslar or wherever they wish to sell it.”
“No easy task, old woman, as you well know,” said Christoph. “It’s forbidden for any but the Emperor to mine or sell the metal. This must be done by stealth. Play me not for a fool.”
“Do as you wish. Or as you must,” replied Oma, the metal in her voice not faltering in the face of Christoph’s attack. “We only ask that you stay a week or so longer that you may help us give thanks in ceremony for what we have found.”
Now I began to grow fearful. For the Oma had opened the secret of the coven to Christoph with her request. What would he make of the White Lady?
“In ceremony?” He laughed. “Do you expect us to hold Mass out here?”
For the first time I spoke up, hoping that I could shut the door before it was too late.
“Involve us not in your worship, I beg you, Rosemunde. Give him what he wants and let there be an end to it.”
“It is the Oma’s decision,” said Rosemunde, grasping the crone’s hand. “Do not fear her wisdom.”
“What do you prattle about, Englishman?” said Christoph to me sharply, already sniffing out that I knew more than he.
“You know this much, so you shall know all,” said the Oma to him.
I braced myself for the revelation, not knowing what my comrade would say or do once he learned of the secret of these masterless creatures. Had he not already told me of his suspicions days ago? But he was far cleverer than I had given him over to be. A cleverness born of his ill nature and nourished on the mother's milk of soldiers everywhere: power and greed.
“We have taken ourselves apart from others for a reason,” the Oma told him. “We worship what has ruled this forest a thousand years before Christ walked the hills of Jerusalem. And those who follow the Cross have forgotten and abandoned She who gave them abundance in the days of old.”
And so she told him all. She spun out her tale of the ancient worship, of Diana’s ways and the purity of the Wood. Rosemunde listened as if entranced by the voice of the crone. I crouched, waiting for Christoph to rise and storm out of the hovel, cursing them for the witches they were.
Yet he listened. He listened as the Oma damned her soul with every word from out of her mouth. And he stayed his place, neither fleeing from the blasphemy nor striking out at she who uttered it. He was a godless man who would take treasure off the Devil himself and no crack-brained witch would stand between him and his fortune.
“Aye, then,” he said, without batting an eyelid, “What do you want of me before I get my share? I care not a flea's piss for your sorcery but I shall not freeze my backside here when the days grow short as soon they will. We ought to make for Goslar and trade our good fortune for coin of the realm.”
The Oma cackled and coughed. “You are a man like all the rest. Cruel and direct. But you know your desire well enough and will work hard to get it. So be it. You may take what you can carry. But not before we give thanks to the Goddess.”
Christoph stared back at her and mumbled an oath. “Very well, old woman. But try not my patience. Your Mass had best be a short one and the sooner the better.”
“Soon enough,” she replied. Then she turned her gaze to me.
“You too must worship, young one,” she grinned. And I shuddered at her ugliness.
“The both of you must play your parts just as you play out your lives,” she said.
The Oma’s hand extended, a yellowed nail curling down at the end of her gnarled finger as she pointed at my chest.
“You are the Forest Man! The Green King who comes each year without fail!”
Her head twisted back to Christoph, her finger stabbing now toward him, “And you, my dark one… you are the Winter King! The bringer of Summer's Death!”
“And you,” said Christoph, slowly rising up on his creaking knees, “you are a mad old cow, but I shall play your game anyway. For the moment.”
But I sat there still, filled with dread of what might come and repenting my decision not to have taken my leave before now.
Rosemunde, who had chained my heart and stolen my sense, looked at me and smiled.
XIV
White Goddess
October 1626
THE TALLOW-RAG torches sputtered and snapped as we made our progress down the Kroeteberg along the narrow path that was barely a fox run. I knew that the sacred place of the Sisters awaited us some thousand yards further on. Yet I had not expected to visit that strange clearing again and not least in the company of Christoph. Where only a week ago I had spoken my heart to Rosemunde now would I stand with the whole of the company to partake of some unknown rite. I walked in silence and in full knowledge that what I was about to do was an abomination of my Protestant faith.
Seven days had passed since the Oma had promised us our release. And this day she had decreed, being the last of the present Moon, was to be the day of Thanksgiving. Not a word was breathed to me about what would transpire that evening and my trepidation had grown as the afternoon waned. Christoph’s distrust now just about boiled over but he held it back. And as we made ready to leave the camp, he slung his scabbard and blade for the first time in many days and smiled at me.
“The comfort of steel has little equal,” he said, buttoning his doublet from the chill. “I’d council you to do the same.”
And, in truth, out of fear of what lay ahead, I did as he told.
/> “We do this thing,” he whispered close in my ear, “we make a few Aves to their Devil and then it is done. The silver is ours. It’s ours or else I shall beat it out of them!”
He turned to join the Sisters who waited for us on the edge of the camp but then, took pause and turned to me again. “And think well upon your fancy for that whore. I’ll not risk my fortune for the likes of anyone. Not even you, my comrade. Do not cross me.”
And so the procession began, my fears given little comfort by the sight of crossbows in the hands of the Sisters. And Rosemunde? What words of comfort had she for me as night fell upon the wood?
“The wondrous things that you shall see!” she exalted, grasping my hand and brushing my cheek with her lips. “Tonight you will understand all that I have spoken of these past days.” And then she looked up at me most strange and intense. “And you and I shall not be the same again.”
Even before we reached the sacred place, the glow of a fire shone through the tangle of leaf, bough and bracken, making what lay beyond this fire all the darker. We entered the clearing in single file, to be welcomed by the other Sisters who stood arrayed in a great circle about the place. The huge double oak loomed over us all, its branches trembling. The hundred silver bells adorning it sparkled in the firelight, their voices clear and gentle as they shook with the wind.
I watched Christoph’s mouth gape as his neck craned upwards. He muttered an oath and shot me a wide-eyed glance. Rosemunde led us to the great oak itself where Fraw Holt stood in the cleft, alabaster white and unmoving.
“Is this your goddess, then?” said Christoph, gesturing with his head.
“Keep your silence!” said Rosemunde in that same hard voice we had first heard many days before.
Christoph smiled in derision but I saw his fist tighten around his sword grip just the same. And then all the Sisters fell to their knees, leaving Christoph and me standing bewildered. The Oma had entered the clearing in her slow shuffling fashion, cloaked in red and leaning upon a tall staff of wood, a sprout of greenery at its top. The crone made her advance to the tree while the rest did their reverence to her. Christoph took a few paces backwards as she approached. As he did so, I caught a glimpse of two Sisters who weren’t taking part. Lying on edge of the pool of firelight, these two bore their hunting bows at the ready. I began to grow fearful that this was not to protect them from me or Christoph, but rather for some darker purpose that would become apparent.
Rosemunde stepped forward to greet the Oma. She bowed her head and gently gathered up the wide sleeve of the old creature’s garment, pressing it to her lips. Oma’s long-fingered hand reached out and touched Rosemunde’s head. Then, the Oma turned and her voice carried forth across the clearing.
“Rise up, my daughters! Arise and prepare to give thanks for our blessings!”
And as the Sisters came to their feet, two moved forward to us bearing a clay jug and vessels. They poured out drink into the cups and offered them first to me and then to Christoph. I grasped the cup and looked to Rosemunde. She nodded to me in return, urging me to take my libation. Christoph looked hard at the Oma and shook his head. Rosemunde took the cup from my hand and drank from it. Then she did the same from Christoph’s.
“We drink to give thanks,” she said, proffering the cup again to me.
“You first, comrade,” said Christoph quietly.
I stared into her eyes. I could see the flames reflected in the green of her orbs. In my heart, I knew she was not lying and I would come to no harm. I placed the cup to my lips and drank. A bitter-tasting, weak ale slid down my throat. Christoph sniffed at his but then followed my example. The cups were taken and refilled and then all the rest took of the ale as the Oma sang in a creaking voice of the White Lady and her Bounty.
I watched her, her staff held aloft, the sprig of mistletoe shaking with her movements and slowly, I began to feel most queer. I felt warmer. My eyesight sharpened such that I thought I could see deep into the forest beyond the fire. And most strangely, my worry began to dissolve into the night. I turned to Christoph and watched as his hand slowly fell from his sword grip, his face softening as his scowl disappeared. And as the Oma sang, I became content with all my surroundings.
“The life of Summer is but short,” sang the crone, “and soon must the Green Man be sacrificed at the hand of the Winter King! For the good of the world, that life shall prosper, He dies and becomes corruption. But so shall He rise anew in the birth of Spring!”
I watched as the Sisters placed on Christoph a mask. It was a Death’s Head fashioned of tree bark and whitewashed to look like bone. That he suffered them to place this on his head amazed me. He stood there in front of the fire swiveling his head this way and that, looking rather confused with the ceremony that we now found ourselves reluctant participants in.
Rosemunde came forward to me. I watched her as she pulled my baldric from my shoulder and unbuttoned my doublet. More curious than frightened, I let her take the liberty. Then my shirt was pulled from me, her gentle assurances falling sweetly on my ears as her hands stroked my arms.
It was then that she noticed Anya’s amulet that hung about my neck. She reached up to grasp it and I gently gripped her hand to stop her.
“A soldier’s charm, nothing more,” I whispered to her.
She hesitated, and then withdrew her hand. “Whose art is it?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I lied.
“But it has kept you safe these many months?” she said. “Then I shall not affect its magic with my touch.” And she covered my hand with hers for a moment, pressing it, sending rays of warmth through my arm.
Then I felt more of the Sisters at my back, supporting me as my boots were tugged off in a trice. These were placed on the growing pile of my clothing. Rosemunde pulled me to the centre of the clearing in front of the fire, her Sisters impelling me from behind. She held my gaze like an enchantress, willing me that I should trust in her come what may. This I did as any remaining misgivings melted away. Again the pot of ale was passed and again I drank deeply of it as did Christoph.
From behind, I felt someone reach up over my head. Before I could raise my arm or turn round, a mask was dropped down on my face, a mask of verdant ivy woven and plaited as one might weave a garment. I reached up to touch it and Rosemunde gently placed her hands on my wrists.
“You are the Green King this night, Rikard,” she whispered, “– the Wood Man come among us. Be not afraid and let His Spirit fill you.”
My head was awhirl now and I felt as if I had drunken two hogsheads and not two cups. I could scarce find my own voice to object. From the eyeholes fashioned in this living mask I could see the Sisters gathering closer, smiles on their faces as they drifted into my view. Garlands of oak leaves settled upon my bare shoulders, tumbling down my chest to dangle at my thighs.
Rosemunde sank to her knees and undid the points of my breeches. As they dropped to my ankles, gentle hands from behind lifted each leg in turn to divest me of them entirely. I stood, clothed only in Adam’s suit, the fire warming my naked skin. I saw the Oma appear before me, her staff and arm raised high. She turned and I was pushed firmly to follow her as she walked around the fire three times. As I made each circuit, three times did I see Christoph, now the Winter King, his eyes large behind the grinning Death’s Head that he wore. The Sisters reached out as I walked and stumbled, touching my arms, my chest and my backside. They that had been as quiet and chaste as nuns these past weeks now capered about laughing or crying with exaltation. And I was their god come unto them.
The Oma stopped before the great oak and turned to me, her birch twig fingers stabbing out at the air. Her eyes had rolled up into her ancient skull as she spoke, her few blackened teeth showing as her lips moved, rapidly forming words.
“Spirit of the world and giver of life! Guardian of the Green Wood and all that dwell within! Come! Come and take the White Lady your wife that Spring may come to end the reign of Winter that soon falls upon us!”
Too soon had I thought, in horror, that the hag was She. But no sooner had the Oma uttered these words then she stepped to one side. In front of me stood Rosemunde, draped in white linen, so bright that my eyes ached, her wild tresses falling about her shoulders, her arms stretched out wide to receive me. I stood as if the greenery that enveloped me had taken root, immobile before her presence.
My ears rang such that all else was drowned out. The cries, the silver bells, the Oma’s chanting. All lost as I looked into Rosemunde’s face.
She slowly brought her arms together before her bosom and her hands grasped the mantle that covered her. She lifted this so that it fell from her back and to the ground at her feet. I drank in her nakedness from her full rounded breasts to her hips, to her dark merkin and her milk-white thighs. And though I was in the company of many, my manhood rose up at the sight of my heart’s desire. The ale I had partaken was no ordinary brew, of that I was certain if nothing else. It enflamed me and emboldened me and I cared not of the spectators that now closed in about me and Rosemunde. My heart pounded away in my chest (and had done so since the second cup of ale had reached my belly). My prick stood out hard as I reached for her and her for me.
We embraced and I gasped out as my manhood touched her thighs. I pulled her down upon the white mantle and delved her, she more than yielding to me, yea even pulling the garlands from my body. I raised an arm to tear the mask of the Green Man from off my face, but she stopped me with a grip that was firm.
“No! Leave it upon you!” And she held my head fast with both her hands, crushing the ivy to my face. I stared into her eyes and saw that the worry and age had disappeared from her face, now flushed rose red.
“Have me,” she said.
For a few moments, there was naught else in the world. Half in a dream, I took her as the Sisters cooed their encouragement to us. At last, she gasped out and I spent myself full. I sank down upon her, my ivy leaves covering her face.
“Get off of her!” came Christoph’s cry, half-strangled within his throat.
The Ravens’ Banquet Page 19
