“I see things differently now. But you’re still a coward.”
I took a step towards the ghost. “And you betrayed us both!”
Christoph nodded. “Aye, that I did. By greed and jealousy. What did you expect, Englishman? I was a soldier. But I see things differently now. I shall carry my burden of sin for eternity.”
A hideous howl rent the air, from higher up the mountain, close to the old encampment. It echoed all around us and was immediately joined by another and then another. Christoph’s head swiveled around, and he crouched, as if looking for a way to run. He leapt over to me and I felt a blast of chilled air, as cold as the worst winter night, emanate from his form.
“I won’t let them take me down! I’m not yet ready to pay the piper.”
Another howl sounded, this time closer and it was deep and base as if from some massive creature. Christoph stretched out his milk white arm and pointed a bony finger at me.
“Your betrayal can yet be made good. Whilst there is time.”
My mouth opened in silent awe and horror at what was loping down the hillside towards us. Christoph turned and faced his pursuers. Three great hounds from hell itself stood no more than a hundred feet away, glowing fiery blue. And they joined together in a howl that seemed to rend the forest, piercing my ears.
Christoph turned back to me. “Save your honour! Save your soul!” And he was off, running silently past me at unnatural speed into the forest. The dogs, as large as cattle, broke into a run, tearing towards me. I crumpled where I stood and rolled into a ball on the ground. But I was never the object of their chase. They flew past me leaving a stinking trail of sulphur that made me retch. More howls followed, now further away. And then silence. I remember crawling on my knees to the oak and the statue, tears burning my eyes. Reaching Holda’s outstretched arms, I sank again to the ground and pulled the cloak around me, sobbing. And as the night drew on, I drifted into a fitful sleep, exhausted.
I AWOKE TO birdsong and sunlight in the trees. I was stiff as if beaten up and hungry such that my stomach was a knot of pain. My mount had not returned and was probably halfway back to Goslar. I stood there in the clearing, my heart as empty as my belly and my head not knowing what next I should do. At length, for one last time, I looked about me, upon the trees, the red ribbons, the silver bells, and Holda, the White Goddess. And I began walking down the mountain.
I continued down the Kroeteberg, past the place where Hartmann and my other comrades lay yet unburied, past where the witches saved us from the bloody hands of the Croats, past where the great greenwood gave way to grassland and stream. By midday, I had come to some poor road. Where it lay I knew not. I did not see a single soldier. I stood for a moment and then started walking again along the road, due east.
And as the sun again began its descent into the western sky, I came to a rise where the green plains stretched out below me and as far as I could see. To my right, the foothills of the Harz erupted, step upon step, until the peaks of the Rammelsberg and the Brocken shot upwards. And at my feet sat Goslar, backing onto the darker green of tree-covered slopes. I had come full circle to the town again.
I reined in and looked down upon the jumble of red roofs and spires, the grey walls, and the tumbling white smoke of a hundred hearth fires. And, so too, could I see the squat tower at the far end of Goslar, the Zwinger: my former prison and still that of poor Rosemunde. The road before me would take me to the very gates if I walked on but a little further. But I was bereft of both courage and cunning. I sat down crosslegged at the roadside, still as Death.
What if the sergeant and the fat gaoler had already returned? Even if they remained in the forest, savouring their fortune, how could I even think to defeat the guards that remained at the tower? Goslar melted before me as tears filled my eyes. I was so tired. So broken. Once I was one of an army of thousands, now was I an army of one. And slowly I came to realise that along with my courage, something else too was lost. Pride and ambition were fled, that part of me stripped away from the man I had been before. And most strange still, it didn’t matter to me.
I heard the sound of creaking cart and looked up to see an old farmer hunched over at the reins, his barebones donkey nodding as it laboured with its burden. In the back jostled straw baskets overflowing with bread, cabbages and carrots. He was making for Goslar before the city gates closed on all outsiders for the night. I know not what came over me as I sat there, shoulders bowed, and my salt-crusted eyes following the farmer’s pitiful progress. I felt giddy, like I had a head stirred by too much mulled wine. For in that instant, I thought of a way to get to Rosemunde. No longer weighed down with worry about consequences anymore, I felt a pleasant madness settle on me.
“Hoy!” I cried as the old man rattled slowly past me.
He drew up and turned his head back.
“I would buy from you that basket of bread that you carry.”
His tanned face, hidden by a scraggly long wisp of grey beard and a limp-brimmed hat, gave little sign of interest as to my offer. But after a moment, he harrumphed and words followed from deep back in his throat.
“And what would the likes of you be offering?”
I reached down to my belt and tugged at the leather purse, breaking the thong that held it. Hefting it in my palm, I eased my mount closer to his cart and then tossed the bag of silver into his lap.
He opened it, and squinting, peered inside. I watched him as he poured the nuggets into his hand, the yellow nail of his forefinger picking at the shining metal that lay cupped in his palm. Then he looked up at me and grinned, his parted lips revealing the brown stumps of two lonely teeth.
“What say you, old man? I think it’s a fair price,” I said. “… If you give me your hat in the bargain.”
WALKING THROUGH THE great archway of Goslar’s back gate, ten feet thick, its ancient bricks dripping with stinking rainwater from the night before, I discovered that my earlier bravado was but a passing boast. I was now more afraid than in a year’s campaigning on the field. I squeezed the shoulder straps of the basket on my back, my head and shoulders hunched, and the brim of the farmer’s noisome hat pulled down over my face. I whispered to myself as I moved ever so slowly forward, a sinner’s prayer to God. My limbs shook as I waited for the cry of a soldier or the grip of rough arms seizing me.
Yet the few folk that greeted me inside the town paid me no heed. Tilting my chin up, I looked ahead of me toward the hulking tower not far distant along the wall. Most of the burghers seemed to be heading into the city and to their homes. It was very late in the afternoon now, the sun low and casting faint beams between the rooftops. I walked on, drawing closer and closer to what had been my prison. Pounding feet came up fast behind me and I flinched, heart jumping in my chest. A gaggle of cursing youths ran past, and I recoiled, armpits tingling with a new outpouring of sweat. I was mad to come back, even the tiny speck of common sense that crouched in the back of my mind told me that. Yet, I cared not in spite of it. I was going to find Rosemunde. I was going to find her and set her free.
I reached the steps of the Zwinger. And slowly, ever so slowly I climbed, all the while thinking of what to say when I reached the top. I raised my head and looked at the iron grate of the nail-studded door. And as I did so, the dread passed away from me. It passed away as if I had sweated out the very fear from my skin. My fist pounded on the oak, a dull sound muffled by the stoutness of the door. I banged on the grate with my palm, jangling the iron shutter that lay behind. And it slid open to reveal the face of a man that, thank Jesus, had not seen me before.
He waited for me to speak.
“Bread,” I said, my voice hoarse and parched. “Bread... bread what was asked for.” And the huge bolt slid back with a jolt and the door opened inwards. Behind it stood a grandfather of the town guard, a head shorter than me, his bald pate glistening in the lantern light behind him. He said nothing but kicked away the stool he had been standing on in order to spy me through the grate.
&
nbsp; As he squinted and cocked and jiggled his head at me like a curious chicken, I felt compelled to drop my chin on my chest to hide myself. I shuffled past through the portal, the dank smell of the stones filling my nostrils and reminding me that I knew this place. I felt the guard pull down roughly on the lip of the basket and pull out a loaf. I stopped, and waited.
“Don’t know nothing ’bout no provisions. Come on, don’t hang about, dolt! Get on inside!”
“Aye,” I mumbled, as he slammed the door and threw the bolt into place. Before I could say anything more, he had hobbled off back into the Keep, leaving me to follow him. To my right, great stone steps spiralled up to the next level, the level where I had been chained. But I had been the only prisoner there and my Rosemunde must lie elsewhere. To the left another set of stairs spiralled downwards, a faint light spilling from somewhere below.
I could hear the old man ranting about something off in the next chamber and in full expectation that I was close on his heels. I turned to the left and descended the stair, my cracked and split boots clacking and flapping in the gloom.
There was only silence below me. I followed the stairs where they led and reached the dungeon of the Keep. I plucked a tin lantern from off its hook at the bottom landing, and, holding it aloft, I stepped forward into the blackness.
“Rosemunde!” I whispered as loudly as I dared.
The cell doors were all ajar. Not a voice, not a whimper, only the scratch of my boots on the stone slabs of the floor.
I thrust the lantern into each chamber, illuminating only four walls, a floor of straw and rags of blankets in each. But the last I entered, the largest of the four, offered something more than this.
I gazed at the far wall and beheld a fresco in blood.
Others would enter and see the outline of the Blessed Virgin, daubed in desperation by the condemned with the life of their own veins, a last act of penitence. But I knew better. I was the only man who knew the truth of what was smeared in haste upon the wall. It was the goddess. It was Holda, arms spread wide, wide enough to gather her children to her.
And all I could do was whisper her name to the stones around me.
“Rosemunde.”
I lowered the lantern in my hand and backed out of the empty cell, my head filled with visions. Visions of the Sisters tied to stakes in the town square, visions of myself recaptured and lashed alongside them, the torches arcing through the air onto the faggots beneath us.
Another light appeared at the stairs. Then the sound of cursing and rapid footfalls followed. The old guard had found me.
The scabrous creature was at my side before I could move, yanking on the wing of my jerkin and tearing it. “How in the name of Christ did you end up here?” he rasped. “Bring that bread up top! There’s nothing down here no more that’ll be needing it save the rats.”
I looked away from that cold cell, unable to look anymore at the bloody icon. The old man had seen where I had been.
“Looking for a peek at the witches, were you? Too late for that, boy,” and he barked out a laugh that rumbled with phlegm. “And I would be there now, watching them roast, if I had not lost the dice throw this morning. Damned shame because I would have given anything to see it, I would have.”
I could have set my hands about his scrawny throat then and there, throttling him until I snapped his neck. It was just he and I and the rats. But I didn’t. I walked past him and started up the winding stair. He was at my back, huffing and cursing me for wandering off, but I was past any caring. I was a dreamer in a waking dream; my feet carrying me up those smooth worn stairs without purpose.
Setting the lantern upon the top step, I pulled the straps from off my shoulders and let the basket drop from my back. The loaves spilled out over the stones, rolling and spinning. My hand reached for the bolt of the massive oaken door and slid the ironware back. As the old man sputtered his rage, I walked out of the tower and into the air again, now tinged with sharpness in the fading light – and with smoke.
I was halfway back to the gatehouse when I first heard the sound. The sound of a great many people, jeering, and shouting as one. The roar abated to a murmur, then rose again. I could hear the tattoo of drums pounding out a dreary slow beat, the beat of a dying heart.
My boots halted on the cobbles and I turned to face the town. Would that I had never turned back. My eyes beheld a great plume of black, coiling upwards like some terrible serpent. It writhed about the twin spires of the market church, growing thinner as it rose upwards, specks of ash mixed black and grey frantically swirling up from the flames below.
Goslar was devouring its witches.
I turned my eyes away but it was too late. My mind’s eye had already shown me the horrors as if my orbs had drunk in the very sight in the flesh. And then, somehow, I was through the wall and gate once again, unchallenged. Insignificant.
I wandered off in the twilight, back the way I had come, aimless. The road followed the curve of the town walls, the rising slopes of the Harz on the far side of the rutted track.
I remember that my heart was not sick – at least not then or there. It was still empty and dry as dust. I heard a gentle neighing and looked up. Ten paces ahead was a riderless horse, grazing at the roadside. There was no sign of its owner and as I approached I recognised the beast. The saddle, pistol and empty scabbard made me sure. It was the black horse that had carried me to Holda’s oak the night before. I gathered his reins and looked around. And my eyes glimpsed a figure in white, standing at the treeline above me. It was there for but a moment before disappearing into the darkness of the forest. But what I had seen was lithe and tall; a woman. The last rays of the sun faded out at the same instant and I thought of the portal to other realms. I pulled myself up into the saddle and sat there, scanning the forest. For her. And in that small passage of time, I was fair suspended, poised between what had gone before and what was to come. All Purpose fled. All Reason banished.
But a chill gust suddenly blew across the faded leaves of the trees, filling my face and drawing me back to this world. I tugged the reins, prodded the beast with my boots, and made my way up the road, headed north. I did not look upon Goslar again. Ever Fortune’s Fool, I was now in search of an army to serve. God willing, I would find what remained of the Danish host – or any other army that would have me. A young old soldier can always be put to work in such times as these.
Dear Andreas had spoken the truth all those weeks ago in Göttingen as we stood in the bell-tower of Saint Jacobi’s, high above the world.
I have forgotten how to do anything else. So will you, in time.
It was, indeed, just as he had foretold.
XVIII
Redemption July
1645
The Tower
Twenty-second of July 1645
MY BROTHER ENTERED my room, somewhat wheezy and breathless from the long twisting climb to the top of the Martin Tower. He walked to my little table and set down the sack of food, a thing he had done each week since his first visit.
I put my pen down and gathered up the sheaves of paper that I had been scratching upon these many days and nights.
“What word, brother?” I asked him. “Have they set a day to it yet?”
“Aye,” he said, doffing his hat and wiping at his brow. “It is fixed by order of Parliament and was this very morning delivered into the hands of the Lieutenant of the Tower. Two days hence, at eight of the clock on the Green.” His voice was quiet and gone was the scolding tinge that had marked it during our first few meetings.
I nodded. “I thank God that they have honoured the word of the examiners. I’ve sat here now for days in certain expectation it would be refused.”
“In the end it was Colonel Wharton who argued it out for you with General Fairfax,” said William. “He holds the word of a soldier to be a thing most sacred. I could not have made the plea with more eloquence.”
“That men such as he still hold office, I do find astonishing,” I replied
. “It’s near to restoring my faith in mankind, I think.”
William’s voice suddenly regained the sharp edge of elder brother. “Then restore my faith – give up this enterprise while there is yet time. I still cannot believe that this will be the first judicial duel to actually be fought in over fifty years. It is sheer madness. The entire House is in uproar.”
A smile quickly came to my lips. At least I had stirred up that nest of self-contented magpies.
That silent gesture only irritated my brother further. “I know not what you’ve given start to, Richard, but you owe me explanation in full. Why have you demanded this mad recourse to the sword?”
I looked up at him knowing that it would be easier to sprout wings and fly my prison than to bring him to understanding. He had not seen with my eyes. He had not walked with my legs. He had not heard with my ears. He had not done what I had done in Germany.
“We have spoken of this before. It is not a light matter… or done from a bitter heart… on that you must believe me, William.”
“Aye, your honour,” he replied in low voice, only half-convinced. “I must tell you that they have found a champion to fight you. To call him ‘King’s Champion’ seems a bit nonsensical given the times we find ourselves in. And it’s to be contested with rapier and dagger.”
“Who is he?” I asked, “Do I know him?”
William moved to the window ledge and leaned on it, looking outside.
“He is an Ensign – and half your age. It seems that his brother was cut down at Naseby and he is of a mind to take revenge. Revenge on any cavalier that was also on the battlefield that day. You will do, he says.”
William turned again to me, exasperation rising again in his gorge.
“All you needed to do was give the committee a few names and take a new commission with Fairfax. The war is as good as done and you would never have seen another battle, I am certain.”
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