The Ravens’ Banquet

by Clifford Beal

  “Prisoner, state your name and your trade!”

  I tried to speak, but my tongue clove to my mouth such that I could barely mumble who I was. I tried swallowing again and rasped out that I was a soldier.

  The magistrate’s neck shot forward like a pigeon’s. “That was inaudible. Speak louder and be quick about it!” he said, much annoyed, his little curling goat’s beard waggling.

  I coughed to clear my throat and spoke again. “My name is Richard Treadwell and I am a poor soldier.”

  “Is he a foreigner?” asked the magistrate loudly, turning to the colleague at his right. And before this gentleman could answer he erupted again, shouting across the table to the guard. “You there, Captain! I say, is he a foreigner? Doesn’t he speak our tongue?”

  “The officer stepped forward, slamming the butt of his halberd onto the floor. “Yes, my lord, we believe he is a Dane.”

  “Well, prisoner, can you make yourself heard?”

  The old man had a bad squint and as he addressed me I found it difficult to know just which eye that I should be looking into. Best, I thought, to look askance. I asked for some water to be given to me.

  The magistrate leaned back in his chair and waved his hand, again much annoyed at the slow start to the proceedings.

  “Someone fetch this wretch a drink that we may finally begin this examination!”

  A soldier unlocked my irons and then thrust a jack into my shaking hands and I drank deeply.

  “Now then, from whence do you come?”

  The jack was wrenched from my grasp and I felt a push at my back from a guardsman.

  “I have come from England and have been in these lands nigh on one year,” I replied, my voice sounding like the croak of a frog.

  “Are you a deserter?” asked a skull capped burgher at the magistrate’s side. “Perhaps from Lord Mansfeld’s army? How did you come to be on the Kroeteberg where you were taken?”

  “I was lost.”

  My answer was received with such an outburst of laughter from the spectators that the chief magistrate had to slam his fist on the table to regain some order.

  “Enough! We have established that the prisoner can speak and be understood. Captain, bring in the woman that we may establish the nature of the crimes.”

  Looking on Rosemunde again was to see a different creature entirely. I had never seen her amid the surroundings of civilisation, only in the dark green halls of the forest. Her presence discomforted me as greatly as if a wild animal had been led into the room. She belonged not to the world that we now found ourselves in. The very sight of her filled me with confusion and dread. Her presence was almost an unnatural one, made more manifest by the symbolic company of the Saints and the Lord of Hosts who she had so openly spurned.

  She crossed my path and our eyes found each other. The look she gave me was the same I had seen many times: a puzzling mixture of warmth and detachment. But I had longed to see unquestioning love in those green pools. But it was not there. I could not take my gaze from her as she was led across and to my left, some ten paces away from where I stood. She was half in profile to me and it appeared that her face was more bony and hollow than I had noticed before. Her honey-red hair was unkempt and wildly astray, her kirtle torn and covered in stains. Her milky white legs and feet were bare and bruised but she stood firm, firmer than I, her feet placed squarely apart, her arms loosely at her sides. She did not turn back to glance on me.

  The ripple of voices that worked through the chamber, whispers magnified by the numbers that witnessed these proceedings, became so loud that the chief magistrate again angrily called for silence, enforced by the captain of the guard.

  As silence prevailed, the first salvo of the magistrates echoed around the room.

  “Woman, you stand accused of witchcraft, blasphemy, and of causing murder to those who were sent to apprehend you in your unlawful occupation of the lands of the Duke. This tribunal is tasked with gaining your confession and the names of your accomplices.”

  And Rosemunde laughed. She laughed full and hearty without a trace of fear or doubt.

  “Foolish, proud men!” she cried out, “To think that you can extinguish Holda’s fire by taking me and my sisters! The White Lady scorns you through me, her willing vessel!”

  My knees had begun shaking again and my stomach turning over and over such that I thought I should cast up what little was still in my belly.

  A tall and gaunt commissioner stood and thrust out his finger at her.

  “Silence, witch! Your threats have no power here. You will address the questions put to you.”

  She smiled back at the old man. “So, your dead god is to protect you, is he? All these dainty paintings here at your backs. I spit upon them – and you!”

  A guard seized her by the arm and threw her hard upon her knees. But she shook his grip off and tried to rise. He knocked her aside with the haft of his weapon.

  “That is enough!” cried the chief magistrate. “Restrain her if she gives cause for disturbance again. What she says is near upon good enough of a confession but we shall carry out these proceedings according to the Law. That she consorts with the Devil will soon enough be established.”

  Rosemunde’s voice was half a cry. “That is a damned lie! I be no worshipper of the Devil. You seek to make me what I am not!”

  “See how she contrarily dissembles, my lord,” said another commissioner. “Tis proof enough she seeks to confound our efforts.”

  The chief magistrate nodded. No other motive could have entered his mind, that was clear enough for me to see.

  “Let us move to questioning the soldier that we may find if he is witness only or accomplice.”

  And it now became clear what my role was to be in this dark play that I found myself an unwilling actor in.

  The chief magistrate looked over to me. “Listen, fellow, and attend well. It is stated in article forty-four of the Constitutio Criminalis Carolina, that the offer to teach magic, or to threaten others with magic, is maleficium.”

  The other eleven all nodded their heads in agreement.

  “It be also maleficium,” he continued, “to have community with witches and magicians and to take part by reflex, words, or acts. Suspicion of such acts is proof enough that torture may be administered to gain full confession. Under the law.” He leaned forward and folded his hands in front of him upon the white tablecloth. His neck jutted out again. “Do you understand me, man?”

  I did very well indeed. They would put me to agonies unless I told them what they wished. I found myself nodding my head like a child.

  “Very well, then. Have you witnessed this woman practising the black arts or leading in the Witches’ Sabbath and other suchlike acts? You were I need not remind you, apprehended in their company.”

  I could feel the sweat pouring down my back and sides so quickly that surely it must form a puddle at my feet.

  “I do not know for certain, my lord,” came my miserable reply.

  “I do not think the fellow understood the implication of article forty-four,” noted one of the commissioners to the chief magistrate, without irony.

  The chief magistrate put another to me.

  “Did you participate in any acts in contravention of your Faith and in concordance with the Devil or his minions?”

  A hundred faces bore down upon me. Wherever my eyes settled, there was an angel, prophet, judge, or Jesus Himself glaring at me, silently shouting my guilt.

  “I did nothing, my lord,” I heard myself say. “I am a good Christian and poor soldier, sir.”

  The chief magistrate nodded sympathetically.

  “Then I shall put it to you again: Did you witness any acts of magic or blasphemy by this woman or any of her company?”

  My ears rang with the sound of my blood pounding through my head. My eyes darted to Rosemunde but I could barely see her face. She stood again, immobile and resolute.

  For one year, Fortuna had stood by me, warding the shot and
steel of the enemy. I had suffered the whims of the Fates in the company of my comrades, just one among many others. I took solace in that many. Now, in this chamber, I was alone.

  When the words came out my mouth, it was as if I were somewhere else, listening from afar.

  “She bewitched me, my lord! I and my comrades all. We wandered lost after Lütter battle until we chanced on her. I swear it was thus!”

  My response brought the chief magistrate leaning far over the table towards me.

  “Bewitched, you say. Then what has befallen your comrades?”

  “All dead, sir,” I replied. “She has stolen my will and placed me under an enchantment.”

  The skull capped one laughed at my plea.

  “This fellow would sell his own mother to save his neck! He ought to be questioned in camera, my lord, that we may learn the real truth. Let the gaoler and his tongs do their work for but a few minutes and all shall be revealed.”

  I raised my hands in supplication, knees trembling and my water barely contained from soaking my breeches.

  “My lord, this witch has held me against my will for weeks. I swear it!”

  And then, an unlikely voice rose up to confirm my betrayal.

  “The man speaks the truth,” cried out Rosemunde. “He has been under my spell and at my bidding these many days.”

  Her words drew forth a gasp from the assembly and shouts from several of the outraged burghers.

  “Aye,” she laughed, “and a weak-minded soldier is easy to turn.” She raised her arm to those that sat upon her in judgement. “And you! Think not that you are safe from my power!”

  I saw several of the commissioners shift uncomfortably on the bench, weak smiles upon their faces.

  “I shall call upon Holda to cause your guts to gripe such that you beg for death, and for your bollocks to shrivel to peppercorns overnight!”

  Three of the commissioners leapt to their feet, shouting. I saw a few of the spectators hurriedly make for a side door of the chamber, alarm on their faces.

  Rosemunde wheeled around and around, her outstretched finger pointing at the throng.

  “Every man born of woman in this room shall suffer Holda’s wrath! And your women shall dry up, your children sicken, your corn rot where it stands!”

  The chief magistrate banged furiously on the table as more burghers swept themselves up in their cloaks and made their exit, shoes clip-clopping across the polished wooden floor. And still, order was not restored. The militia fidgeted uncomfortably, looking from one to another and to the captain of the guard for orders. But he too was in confusion, waiting for the magistrates to speak again.

  At last, realizing he had to take charge, the captain stepped forward to seize Rosemunde.

  She glided backwards, out of his reach, and placed her outstretched fingers across her face, her black fingernails under her blazing eyes and her other hand pointing at the officer’s chest.

  The captain of the guard stopped dead in his boots.

  “How brave be you, man, to take me on?” she growled.

  And in that moment, as swift and brief as a ray of sun passes through a cloud break, she had defeated them all. Not a one moved.

  And then I heard her speak the words that the Oma had sung that night in the sacred place. That strange tongue that bore no familiar sound. It echoed across the chamber and around the saints, louder as she gathered herself, summoning her strength. Her voice filled the room, mocking the holy icons, calling upon the old goddess.

  The captain retreated two steps.

  “Seize her, you fool!” cried the chief magistrate. And the spell was broken.

  The soldiers were upon her at the word of the captain, and they pulled her to the floor, she writhing and yet calling for Holda’s vengeance. They hauled her up, two on each arm. She raised her head and looked over at me.

  She had stopped struggling. Her eyes looked into mine and though I wanted to turn away I could not. She beheld me not with anger, nor even with sadness. It was a look wholly unexpected. Her eyes told me she forgave my betrayal and that I was safe now. She looked on me as a mother would to her child, as if to say: Fear not. All will be well.

  And then they had her in irons as the burghers cursed her and shouted. The chief magistrate ordered them to remove her to the Zwinger. I stood there like a stone as they dragged her away. Rosemunde kept her eyes on me until she was no longer able, a rough hand yanking her head frontwards. And then, she was gone.

  The chief magistrate turned his attention to me once again as the chamber slowly became quiet.

  “As for you, Auslander, this commission will reconvene when it is convenient to decide your fate. Perhaps the Emperor’s men have knowledge of you if you have deserted. Take him back down.”

  His voice had regained its authority, but as they shackled my wrists again, I saw that his pallid face was ringed with beads of sweat.

  I LAY UPON my damp bed of straw again, watching the dying rays of the sun fall upon the ledge of my window. I lay there, sickened in the enormity of my perjury and wishing death for myself. She had played the part to save my life. She had become the witch they wanted. And I knew that as much as they would twist the wooden screw of the ‘crocodile’s jaws’ on her leg, she would tell them nothing. The secret of the silver would die with her and those Sisters that yet lived – if any did. I was cold and no tears could come to my eyes.

  A stab of fear hit my vitals and I curled myself tight. Surely Christoph must have spoken of the treasure when he had set the Guard upon us. If that was so, the torture would soon begin so they could learn the whereabouts of the mine. But maybe the magistrates were not privy to this secret. Maybe only the Guard and the gaolers plotted to gain it for themselves. And, once they failed in extracting the secret from Rosemunde, they would come for me.

  As I lay there in the quiet, alone, and with my gaolers nowhere to be found, my eyes stared at the stone wall opposite. Slowly, I became aware of a face showing from the stone itself. I knew that I was not asleep. I was fully awake. The stones of the wall rippled as if water, taking form. I saw a man. Snatching at my rag of a stinking coverlet, I drew myself up against the other wall, dragging my leg iron rasping across the floor.

  Samuel stepped into my cell.

  No more the Green Man, his apparition came to me, half-obscured, covered as if in grey gossamer.

  My nape tingled and a great chill passed through me and indeed the whole cell. As I muttered an oath, my breath came out in a billowing cloud.

  “Samuel,” I said, “For the love of Christ, what is it that you want?”

  In answer, he sighed. “The Colonel has finally stricken me from the muster roll and no longer steals my pay by pretending I yet live. I can go to my rest now.” He stood attired as I had last seen him in life, on that afternoon he had tried to murder me. Yet all colour had drained from his garb and his skin.

  “I grow weary of this place,” said the ghost. “I’m so very tired.”

  “Why have you come back?” I whispered, half in belief that I had gone mad.

  “Because I wronged you in life even as your Blood wronged me. But it’s not right for you to die here with me. I can see that now.”

  I grasped my hair in both my hands, balling my fists as to wrench it out.

  “Sweet Jesus, I don’t want to die here. Not in this place. What am I to do? Samuel, tell me. Tell me, please.”

  I looked into its face and though it was like looking into aspic, its features were those of Samuel Stone and no other.

  “Look to ten moons to gain your freedom,” Samuel whispered to me. “Ten moons that you now hold. These shall be your key. Fare you well, Richard Treadwell.” I thought I could see a smile form on his grey face. “I walk in this world no more.” He extended an arm towards me that slowly dissipated like so many wisps of blue tobacco smoke.

  And as I watched, he receded back into the stone, fading away to nothing.

  “Wait!” I cried out, vexed by his riddle. But
he had gone.

  I sat there, my head buried in my lap, and the tears finally came to my eyes, welling up and tumbling down my cheeks. The vast room had not yet been lit by torches, and so was now more than half in shadow of the dying day. And the very last sliver of sunlight, so low and so thin, now cut across me through the slit window as I huddled. I rubbed my eyes and only by chance, I looked down into my boot tops. These battered leathers, crumbling from a year of war, sagged outward, exposing my filthy hose and shins. But the shaft of dying sunlight cut across the exposed lining, and there I saw the round shiny embossed marks of my gold coins, sewn into the linings when I sailed upon Artemis. And as I beheld them, I saw ten moons waxing full.

  My stratagem was barely thought out, and to be sure, it was a desperate throw of the dice. Yet, somehow, I contrived to carry it off. It was already full dark when I heard the fat one and his comrade returning from their evening meal. As their footfalls upon the wooden steps came closer, orange torch light slowly filled the room. I prayed they were not too drunk to understand what I was about to tell them. And I called them over.

  Lothar, the tall skinny one, held the torch up high, illuminating my cell as I sat, and the fat one leaned towards me, stinking of roast pork.

  “Whatever you ask had better be worth it else you will get naught but a kicking,” he said.

  “Is this worth your while?” I asked, opening my palm and revealing the shining gold within it.

  Lothar swore and swooped to grasp the coins but the fat one knocked him aside and grabbed my wrist before scraping the money into his meaty paw.

  “I knew I should have stripped you naked as soon as we chained you,” he said, pushing me over hard and seizing my boots. I cried out in pain as he twisted them off my feet.

  “What’s this then?” asked the fat one.

  A folded piece of heavy blue cloth which had lain wrapped about my hose, deep within my right boot, fell into his hand. He opened it to reveal the Cornet of Colonel Nells’s regiment: a silver gauntleted hand clutching the sword of God. Seeing it again after so long a time, struck me hard. All my past lay rolled in that worn sheet of taffeta, all that I had been.