Crusaders 2 3/7
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Chapter 2
Unlooked-For
Samuel woke in great pain; one side of his face felt swollen, and he knew not where else he was wounded but hurt everywhere. He was naked save for his smallclothes, but soft, warm blankets lay close about him, and he seemed to be on a bed and near enough to a fire to be comfortable. And the air was filled with the scent of cooking food.
With an effort, Samuel opened his eyes and looked about. He was in the grange house, which was dark save for the fire; the strange blade stood unsheathed beside the hearth, and upon the hearth itself was crouched... “Dean?!”
“Ho there, Sammy,” Dean replied with a worried smile as he served some soup from the pot on the coals into a bowl. “Welcome back.”
“But... how comest thou....”
“Five days ago, Brother Asce gave me word he had from a journeyman from this shire who had passed through Oxenford last week while I was in Grentabrige seeing to Father. I came as swiftly as I could-and none too soon. ’Twas no little fight I had to get thee into this house, and little less to get my horse under warded cover. But we’ve stores enow, with what was here and the food I brought from Ellen-’tis keeping cold in yon window.” Dean nodded toward one of the oilskin-covered windows furthest from the fire. “The house is warded, thanks to thy chalk and the store of salt that was here. There’s yarrow enow for all the poultices thou hast need of. And I,” he concluded with a note of triumph as he stood and brought the bowl to Samuel, “have made thee Mother’s stew.”
Samuel’s stomach rumbled in answer. Oft when they were children, Dean had made this stew, and each time he swore that Mary had made it with her own hands whenever Dean had been ill before the fire. Samuel smiled at his brother’s thoughtfulness and tried to shift so that he could eat better, but moving at all hurt.
“Here,” Dean said, setting down the bowl and lifting Samuel’s head gently to place another bolster behind it. “That should do. And I shall feed thee for the nonce.”
“My thanks,” Samuel returned. And then he remembered what the stew was made of, and his eyes flew wide. “Wait, Dean, none but the ill-”
“Art ill,” Dean stated and shoved a spoonful of stew into Samuel’s mouth. “And shalt have need of beef and other like meat for strength to let thy wounds mend.”
Samuel swallowed. The stew was rich with wine and salt and the savor of marrow bones; the beef, carrots, onions, and currant raisins were cut fine enough that he had no need to chew; and he tasted many herbs and spices known to aid in healing-ginger, savory, cinnamon, cloves, mace, sage, rosemary, thyme, and honey. The heat spread comfortingly through his chest as the liquid traveled downward to his stomach, relaxing the muscles and easing the pain somewhat. He could not hold back a moan of relief.
“Would have brought a wench, had I known thou hast such need,” Dean teased and gave him another spoonful.
Samuel could only glare at him.
Dean snickered and let the jest drop. “Art beaten and clawed, but no worse than a cracked rib, I deem. I had a care for thy head, but thou’rt clear-minded enow; may be the loss of blood and the lack of breath that did for thee.”
“Mm,” Samuel agreed and swallowed. “How long was I out?”
“Some hours. The mist so hides the sun that I wit not the time.”
“Hast learned aught?”
“Precious little. A few ghosts I have seen, but I wit not what role they play. The black mist is a host of devils. Some are of the types that need no host-acheri, I think the child-devils are called, but I wit not the names of the others. Yet some there are that possess men and are formless else. One tried to take me, but it could not.”
Samuel frowned, then blinked. “Castiel’s mark?”
“Castiel’s mark,” Dean agreed. “I doubt not that it saved thee also.”
“What of thy arrows?”
“Iron heads with salt along the edges.”
“And the sword?”
Dean smiled. “Iron the blade, silver the hilt, the whole washed with holy water and blessed by the archbishop of Paris over the relics of St. Denis. ’Twas William de Harvelle’s; Joanna sent it with me.”
Samuel closed his eyes, but tears slid down his cheeks despite him.
“Here, now,” Dean said in concern and set the bowl aside. “What ails thee?”
“I prayed for aid,” Samuel whispered. “But I scarce dared hope such aid as thine would come.” He opened his eyes and smiled shakily. “It seems Gabriel and Castiel are not our only friends on high.”
Dean smiled a little and rubbed the back of his neck, then picked up the bowl again and fed him the rest in silence. “More?” he asked then.
Samuel hesitated; he was still hungry, but the Order had rules against eating to surfeit. “Well, I....”
“Oh, stuff,” Dean replied and got up to refill the bowl. “Art wounded sore; thy abbot shall forgive.”
Samuel could not but smile.
“Say, what the devil dost thou out here alone? I should have thought the lay brothers, at least, would be here.”
“The grange hath need of cleansing. And Brother Thomas hath called me liar for the little I have said of the Crusade. Abbot Aelred saw no choice but to send me hither as both service and ordeal.”
Dean frowned as he returned with the second bowlful. “This Brother Thomas... is he....”
“Behaving strangely? Aye.” Samuel took a spoonful of stew before continuing. “Since the time all this started, he has been most unruly. He will enter the church but not the cloister, which is blessed with salt. And I cannot be sure, but....”
“His eyes turn?”
“Aye. Black, an I mistake not.”
Dean cursed. “I feared as much. It seeks to avenge Azazel upon thee. And a strong devil it must be, to bear holy ground.”
“What shall we do, then?”
“First things first: we get thee well and find out what the devil is going on here. We rid this place of devils and ghosts. Then we go back to Rievaulx and see to Brother Thomas.”
Samuel nodded and ate in silence a while longer. But finally he asked, “How doth Father fare?”
Dean sighed. “I’sooth, Sammy, I wit not. His body heals, but not his soul. Were he not with Father Seamus, I doubt not that he would even now be nigh to drinking himself to death.”
“For what cause?”
“Mother. He loves her still, mourns her still.”
Even so dost thou, Samuel thought, watching Dean’s face, yet he said naught. Dean, at least, had Joanna, as Samuel had the Church, but Mary had been John’s one true love. Neither of them could ever fully fathom his grief.
“An... an ever there is peace again in Winchester, I hope to take him back to the old manor. ’Tis said Mother walks abroad there; perchance they might both find peace.”
Samuel frowned. “Why said thou naught ere I returned? The angels might have taken us all.”
“Faith, Sammy, ’twas far from my thoughts then. But then, may be that killing Azazel was enow.”
Samuel nodded. “May be.”
Dean fed him the last of the second bowlful of stew and brought him clean water to drink, then gave him a very small dose of poppy tincture for the pain and helped him to lie flat again. Samuel watched Dean serve himself a bowl of stew, but the fullness of his stomach and the poppy soon made him drowsy, and he was asleep again in moments.
Samuel drifted from sleep to wakefulness and back many times over the next day or two. Often when he woke, Dean was busy trying to clean and mend Samuel’s stained and shredded robe, much as he had done with the few bits of poor cloth they had had to wear when they were children. But betimes he was cooking-reheating the beef stew or preparing aught else-or crushing yarrow or checking Samuel’s bandages or the wards; seldom did Samuel catch him nodding. Whatever Samuel needed, though, he had but to speak and Dean was ready to help, even to the point of aiding him in using the chamber pot. That was humiliating, but Dean made no complaint, so neither did Samuel.
Sleep, however, was frustratingly bootless. Samuel could recall no more than flashes of dreams, and betimes he was in too much pain to sleep deeply enough to dream. Yet he could not but think that some clue to the puzzle might lie in his dreams if he could but dream properly.
“Well, the devils’ aim is clear,” Dean noted as he fed Samuel a stew of coneys, the making of which had used up a fair portion of the bread ration. “How to banish the lot is less so. I would we had some way to speak so the whole grange might hear. Have Young Dean and Young Samuel such a thing, think thou?”
Samuel had perforce to swallow swiftly. “Oh, ask me not. It hurts to laugh.”
“Sooth, Samuel.”
“I wit not. Given the thing we saw them in, the... horseless wain or whatever it was, perchance they do.”
“I wonder how such a thing would work....”
Amused, Samuel fell asleep again to Dean’s wondering aloud. Yet somehow, thinking of that far-off and now-averted future helped Samuel to dream at last:
Young Sam, who seemed closer in age to Samuel now than he had in the vision the brothers had shared on the Damascus road, delivered four other children of an age with him-two maids and two lads, and one of the lads a Moor-from an acheri demon, warned them of another demon, and led them out-of-doors onto an empty street. The wooden buildings round about were in disrepair, but a rusted bell graven with a great oak tree caught Young Sam’s eye.
“I’ve seen that bell before,” said he. “I know where we are now: Cold Oak, South Dakota. A town so haunted, every single resident fled.”
Samuel drew in a sharp breath, which his chest protested, and the pain roused him just as Dean knelt beside his bed.
“What? What is’t?” Dean asked. “Hast seen aught?”
“The-the-what was,” Samuel replied, fighting for both breath and words. “A town of ghosts... where demons played... called Cold Oak.”
Dean frowned. “I wit the name not.”
“Not here. West... where the children are. Shall be.”
“The-”
“’Twas Sam.”
It took Dean a moment to make sense of what Samuel had said. “So in this sight of that which shall not be, Young Sam was in a case like ours?”
“Not yet so bad. Saw but one demon. But the ghosts... were there already.”
“How many?”
“Too many. The folk took flight. ’Twas a ruin.”
Dean leaned back and thought. “’Tis said sites of great evil draw other evil, as rancid meat draws flies. ’Twould account for the devils appearing at this grange and not some other.”
“And for the ghosts.”
“Aye. An the place were already haunted, perchance the devils have stirred up the ghosts as well.”
Samuel listened a moment to the howling outside and the rattling of the door that were belike not from wind. “Some of the ghosts are angry,” he said. “But some about this house are sore afraid. They wish the demons gone but have not the strength to fight, nor wit they how. They seek peace long denied.”
“Denied?”
“I wit no more as yet.”
Dean sighed. “Well, rest a while. Perchance more shall come to thee.”
Samuel nodded and closed his eyes, letting himself drift. Yet nothing definite came for some time, though he sensed the crowd of fearful ghosts about the house growing. But finally he did fall asleep deeply enough to see aught:
Thorkel Longbeard stood on the ridge overlooking Griff and smiled to himself as his wicca, [1] Gunnar Herjulfsen, came nigh. “There,” said Thorkel (and Samuel knew not how he understood the Northman). “The captive says there be much gold to be found in this hamlet.”
“Aye,” quoth Gunnar, “but said he where?”
“Nay. ’Tis why I need thee, Gunnar. I would that no wight in this hamlet-man, woman, child, living or dead-shall leave or find peace until that gold be found. The Christian dogs shall know the might of our gods and yield.”
“Thou hast not asked whether I wit such a spell, Thorkel.”
Thorkel looked at Gunnar. “Wist thou?”
Gunnar made an unsure noise. “I ken the gods to ask. Baduhenna and Váli hold the keys to Valhalla. Yet they shall ask sacrifice for such a favor.”
Thorkel grinned evilly. “Then sacrifice they shall have.”
Samuel gasped in horror and sat bolt upright.
Dean was at his side in a trice. “Sammy! What is’t? What hast thou seen?”
“Dean... get pen....”
“Wist thou what happened here?”
“Not... the whole....”
“Slate, then. I’ll not risk parchment yet. Gain thou thy breath; I’ll fetch the stack of slates from the cellar.” And off Dean ran.
Samuel’s gasps had turned to groans by the time Dean returned. Dean set down the slates and helped him lie down, applied fresh yarrow where needed, and gave him more poppy. Only then did Dean fetch chalk and a slate and sit down. By then, Samuel had breath enough to speak, though slowly, and related what he had seen.
Dean had some choice West Saxon words on the topics of witches and pagans to say when he had finished taking Samuel’s dictation. And Samuel could not but agree.
Thanks to the yarrow and Dean’s rich stews, Samuel felt somewhat less sore the next day; the swelling in his face had gone down, and his many bruises had begun to change from purple to green. He still needed Dean’s help for most things, but he could feed himself, though slowly. The fearful ghosts continued to press close about the house, so much so that a sheen of ice had formed over the windows furthest from the fire and on the packets of meat Dean had placed there to keep cold. The brothers questioned whether the ghosts sought refuge or would fain speak to (or through) Samuel. But Samuel would not agree to any form of divination like a talking board, and both knew that breaking the salt line for any spirit would allow entry to all. They had therefore to wait upon Samuel’s visions, which Samuel sought only through prayer.
The wait seemed as long as the wait for Samuel’s healing. But when at last another vision came, Samuel was glad of the delay:
Five English captives, beheaded and flayed, lay before the bloodied altar where Gunnar Herjulfsen chanted a spell to summon Baduhenna and Váli. Then he struck flint with steel above the summoning bowl, and the gods appeared, standing among the slain. Each studied the offering, chose and ate a part of whichever pleased him or her, and then turned with a cruel smile to Gunnar.
When Gunnar had repeated Thorkel’s desire, Baduhenna raised an eyebrow. “And what if there be no gold?” she asked.
“Thorkel shall tell you when he is sure.”
“Oh, Thorkel shall tell us. How dares he make demands thus of the gods? We are no thanes of his, nor slaves to mankind.”
Now it was Gunnar’s smile that turned cruel, and Váli gasped as he looked down and saw chains of light binding the gods’ limbs. “Bound,” he growled. “How came we so to be bound?!”
“Ye have accepted the sacrifice,” Gunnar replied. “By this spell, ye must now perforce satisfy the one offering sacrifice. When ’tis done, ye may go; ’til then, ye shall stay.”
Baduhenna lunged at Gunnar, but the light chains held her fast, and he laughed.
“Evil,” Samuel wheezed when he had related the vision to Dean. “Great evil, thou said. Well, no greater evil have I seen, save Azazel.”
Dean handed him a cup of mulled wine. “Aye, and I fear worse is to come.”
“And all of the love of money.” Samuel drank. “Radix enim omnium malorum est cupiditas.” [2]
“Oh, do thou speak English, Sammy....”
But scarce had Samuel finished the wine when another vision appeared before his waking eyes and gave him cause to scream:
The Northmen had taken such plunder as they could find, but there was precious little of that. When searches uncovered no gold, Thorkel took those who remained alive and turned to torture. Three men he put to the blood-eagle in full sight of all, [3] but through all the screams and weeping, the tale remained the same. The captive had lied. There was no gold in Griff.
In a rage, Thorkel put every living creature in the town to the sword. And when Gunnar asked whether to bid the gods release their souls, Thorkel cried, “Nay! Here let them rot ’til Ragnarok. No peace shall there be for Christian filth!”
Thus the Northmen rode away.
And Samuel fell forward into Dean’s arms and wept bitterly.
After Samuel was at last able to speak enough to relate the final vision to Dean, the brothers kept silence a long while as they drank the mulled wine and ate Dean’s venison stew. Wearied then and sore of heart and limb, Samuel slept and woke and slept again while Dean found parchment and ink and wrote a fair copy of the full tale. He took especial care, Samuel noted, but that was no great wonder. ’Twas a solemn, woeful tale, and unlike the ghosts that hunters oft had cause to quell with salt and fire, the folk of Griff had done no harm. Dean clearly felt no less sorrow for them than Samuel did.
Some hours passed before Samuel woke to find Dean taking sealing wax from his pack. “Dean? Hast done at last?”
“Aye. Here, see thou whether the copy is good.” Dean helped Samuel sit up, then brought him the parchment and a candle to read better by.
Samuel glanced over the page and found the layout good enough. Dean had used plain black ink and had added no decoration, but that befit the tale in Samuel’s view-and besides, Dean was no great artist with a pen. Then Samuel began to read the words themselves:
Þe Deaþ Griffan
Swa God þa sarspell to Broðor Samuel of Rievaulx gesweotolede [4]
He smiled a bit at that, and Dean gently rubbed his shoulder. Samuel carefully read out the whole tale, which was just as he had told it to Dean, and nodded as he went. Then he came to the closing Dean had added:
Þus spræc Broðor Samuel. Ic Denu of Winceastre wrat hit for him for þam þe he becam micelan saras fram deofolas, se þe þe broðor of Rievaulx to sargian sohton, ond ne mæg sylfa writan. We liefaþ, hie deofolas comon to Griff for þam þe þas firencræft dydon þa Norðmenn. For witnes sette ic her min segn todæg, þam xvii. Feb. mcxlviii. [5]
Samuel nodded slowly and brushed off a few stray grains of pounce. “’Twas truly the craft more than one deed. Aye, ’tis good, Dean.” He handed the parchment back, noting that there was still room enough for a Latin translation should Abbot Aelred request one. “Is’t the seventeenth already?”
“Aye, just,” Dean replied, taking the parchment and candle back to the desk where he had been working. “’Tis half past midnight, I deem; I heard the Matins bell.” He sat down and held the stick of sealing wax above the candle flame for a moment, then dripped the molten wax onto the face of the parchment and pressed down on it with the silver signet ring he always wore on his right hand. It had been Mary’s; how Father had saved it from the fire they knew not, but Dean bore it proudly. “There, ’tis done. Perchance shalt sleep better hereafter.”
“Deo volente,” Samuel agreed. [6]
“Hast need of aught?”
Samuel thought a moment. “More stew, perchance, an thou left any.”
“Left and kept hot, for I am the best brother in all England,” Dean shot back and went to get it for him.
Samuel smiled fondly and doubted it not.
The press about the house did lessen now that the tale was told and written down. But Samuel’s sleep was no more restful, for it now seemed the demon horde sought to attack him through his dreams-no true visions, these, but nightmares terrible and filled with such fears as he had already fought for many years, of monsters fell and grievous hurts to those he loved. Dean woke him more than once when the horrors made him scream.
Finally, just after dawn, they both gave it up as a bad job, and Dean set himself to fry some bacon. “And speaking of bad jobs,” he said, “I have tried all I wit to do, but I deem thy robe cannot be saved. I shall have to find thee another.”
“What holes cannot be mended?”
“Nay, ’tis not so badly rent as that. ’Tis the staining. I would not use the whole store of soap to get such bloodstains out of white wool.”
“Well, then, ’twill serve to clothe me for the journey back to Rievaulx and be proof of our pains. I wit not whether there be any spare robes kept here, as the lay brothers may not wear our habit.”
“Mm, fair point, nor might I easily find aught to fit thy giant height, even if such spares were here.”
Samuel snorted.
They ate in pleasant silence, but outside there was still no peace. And Samuel felt no closer to knowing what to do about it. He said as much while Dean stored the bacon grease for later use in seasoning.
“Well, we have the ghosts’ tale,” Dean noted. “It would seem that Baduhenna and Váli are still bound by the Northmen’s spell, which makes clear why the ghosts are trapped thus.”
“Aye, true. Perchance we need some way to break the spell.”
“Or to repeat it.”
Samuel gasped. “DEAN!”
“Samuel, an we shift the bond-”
“Nay. Nay, I shall not offer aught to heathen gods. I wit not the full spell or the herbs needed. And even had I the knowledge, paid thou no heed to the tale? Five men they slew to draw the gods.”
“But the gods are already here.”
“And already angry!”
“So, we make trial of aught else than blood.”
“Dean, such trial could get us killed, or draw aught worse to us. And in any case, there are no trappings for a summoning here.”
Dean sighed and strode toward the fire, frustrated. “Oh, very well. That puts us back to breaking the bond, but we wit not how to do that, either, without some counter-spell.”
Samuel ran a hand over his face. “I would we had someone like Robert or Brother Asce here. Someone who might wit more than we.”
And there was the sound of a throat clearing from just inside the door.
Dean caught up the iron sword from the hearthside and spun to face the female figure that stood beneath the devil’s trap he had drawn above the door. She smiled and stepped out of the trap easily, the motion causing the firelight to catch on the many metal roundels that hung about her Roman dress. Her hair was bound up but uncovered, and her arms were bare save for bands of gold in the Celtic style. Yet she seemed not to feel the deep chill that lingered beyond the fire’s heat.
“Who are you?” Dean demanded.
A flash of confusion crossed her face before she answered in Latin, “My name is Coventina. I am a goddess of wells and springs. I wit not how I came to be bound to this well, but I have no quarrel with the Christians so long as they throw me coins now and again. I take naught else from humans, and in return I keep their wells flowing.”
Samuel translated that statement for Dean at the same time he took another look at the roundels and saw that they were indeed coins of gold, silver, and copper. He could not see them clearly, but some looked Roman, some British, some Danish, some English. He thought he even saw one or two that bore King Stephen’s visage.
Dean looked no less confused or wary. “What would you with us?”
Coventina looked at Samuel, who translated, and took another step forward. “I have no quarrel with Christians, as I said. But I take exception to being frozen out of my own well. Ye wish the demons and the ghosts gone; so do I. I have come to offer aid.”
Dean lowered his sword when Samuel translated and fixed Coventina with a searching look. Then he reached into his purse, pulled out a gold coin, and tossed it to her with a smile. She caught it with an answering smile and hung it on her belt. And Samuel knew not whether to be glad or have a headache.
Next
[1] Masculine form of wicce (witch)
[2] For cupidity is the root of all evil (1 Tim. 6:10a Vulgate; most modern translations specify “the love of money,” but cupiditas has broader meanings, as Chaucer reminds us in the Pardoner’s Tale).
[3] If you don’t know what the blood-eagle is... you don’t want to. Trust me. There’s a reason the Horrible Histories song “Literally” is about Vikings, after all.
[4] The Death of Griff / As God revealed the sad tale to Brother Samuel of Rievaulx
[5] Thus spoke Brother Samuel. I, Dean of Winchester, wrote it for him because he received many wounds from devils that sought to grieve the brothers of Rievaulx and was not able to write himself. We believe these devils came to Griff because the Northmen did this wickedness. For witness I set here my seal today, the 17th of February, 1148.
[6] God willing
Chapter 2
Unlooked-For
Samuel woke in great pain; one side of his face felt swollen, and he knew not where else he was wounded but hurt everywhere. He was naked save for his smallclothes, but soft, warm blankets lay close about him, and he seemed to be on a bed and near enough to a fire to be comfortable. And the air was filled with the scent of cooking food.
With an effort, Samuel opened his eyes and looked about. He was in the grange house, which was dark save for the fire; the strange blade stood unsheathed beside the hearth, and upon the hearth itself was crouched... “Dean?!”
“Ho there, Sammy,” Dean replied with a worried smile as he served some soup from the pot on the coals into a bowl. “Welcome back.”
“But... how comest thou....”
“Five days ago, Brother Asce gave me word he had from a journeyman from this shire who had passed through Oxenford last week while I was in Grentabrige seeing to Father. I came as swiftly as I could-and none too soon. ’Twas no little fight I had to get thee into this house, and little less to get my horse under warded cover. But we’ve stores enow, with what was here and the food I brought from Ellen-’tis keeping cold in yon window.” Dean nodded toward one of the oilskin-covered windows furthest from the fire. “The house is warded, thanks to thy chalk and the store of salt that was here. There’s yarrow enow for all the poultices thou hast need of. And I,” he concluded with a note of triumph as he stood and brought the bowl to Samuel, “have made thee Mother’s stew.”
Samuel’s stomach rumbled in answer. Oft when they were children, Dean had made this stew, and each time he swore that Mary had made it with her own hands whenever Dean had been ill before the fire. Samuel smiled at his brother’s thoughtfulness and tried to shift so that he could eat better, but moving at all hurt.
“Here,” Dean said, setting down the bowl and lifting Samuel’s head gently to place another bolster behind it. “That should do. And I shall feed thee for the nonce.”
“My thanks,” Samuel returned. And then he remembered what the stew was made of, and his eyes flew wide. “Wait, Dean, none but the ill-”
“Art ill,” Dean stated and shoved a spoonful of stew into Samuel’s mouth. “And shalt have need of beef and other like meat for strength to let thy wounds mend.”
Samuel swallowed. The stew was rich with wine and salt and the savor of marrow bones; the beef, carrots, onions, and currant raisins were cut fine enough that he had no need to chew; and he tasted many herbs and spices known to aid in healing-ginger, savory, cinnamon, cloves, mace, sage, rosemary, thyme, and honey. The heat spread comfortingly through his chest as the liquid traveled downward to his stomach, relaxing the muscles and easing the pain somewhat. He could not hold back a moan of relief.
“Would have brought a wench, had I known thou hast such need,” Dean teased and gave him another spoonful.
Samuel could only glare at him.
Dean snickered and let the jest drop. “Art beaten and clawed, but no worse than a cracked rib, I deem. I had a care for thy head, but thou’rt clear-minded enow; may be the loss of blood and the lack of breath that did for thee.”
“Mm,” Samuel agreed and swallowed. “How long was I out?”
“Some hours. The mist so hides the sun that I wit not the time.”
“Hast learned aught?”
“Precious little. A few ghosts I have seen, but I wit not what role they play. The black mist is a host of devils. Some are of the types that need no host-acheri, I think the child-devils are called, but I wit not the names of the others. Yet some there are that possess men and are formless else. One tried to take me, but it could not.”
Samuel frowned, then blinked. “Castiel’s mark?”
“Castiel’s mark,” Dean agreed. “I doubt not that it saved thee also.”
“What of thy arrows?”
“Iron heads with salt along the edges.”
“And the sword?”
Dean smiled. “Iron the blade, silver the hilt, the whole washed with holy water and blessed by the archbishop of Paris over the relics of St. Denis. ’Twas William de Harvelle’s; Joanna sent it with me.”
Samuel closed his eyes, but tears slid down his cheeks despite him.
“Here, now,” Dean said in concern and set the bowl aside. “What ails thee?”
“I prayed for aid,” Samuel whispered. “But I scarce dared hope such aid as thine would come.” He opened his eyes and smiled shakily. “It seems Gabriel and Castiel are not our only friends on high.”
Dean smiled a little and rubbed the back of his neck, then picked up the bowl again and fed him the rest in silence. “More?” he asked then.
Samuel hesitated; he was still hungry, but the Order had rules against eating to surfeit. “Well, I....”
“Oh, stuff,” Dean replied and got up to refill the bowl. “Art wounded sore; thy abbot shall forgive.”
Samuel could not but smile.
“Say, what the devil dost thou out here alone? I should have thought the lay brothers, at least, would be here.”
“The grange hath need of cleansing. And Brother Thomas hath called me liar for the little I have said of the Crusade. Abbot Aelred saw no choice but to send me hither as both service and ordeal.”
Dean frowned as he returned with the second bowlful. “This Brother Thomas... is he....”
“Behaving strangely? Aye.” Samuel took a spoonful of stew before continuing. “Since the time all this started, he has been most unruly. He will enter the church but not the cloister, which is blessed with salt. And I cannot be sure, but....”
“His eyes turn?”
“Aye. Black, an I mistake not.”
Dean cursed. “I feared as much. It seeks to avenge Azazel upon thee. And a strong devil it must be, to bear holy ground.”
“What shall we do, then?”
“First things first: we get thee well and find out what the devil is going on here. We rid this place of devils and ghosts. Then we go back to Rievaulx and see to Brother Thomas.”
Samuel nodded and ate in silence a while longer. But finally he asked, “How doth Father fare?”
Dean sighed. “I’sooth, Sammy, I wit not. His body heals, but not his soul. Were he not with Father Seamus, I doubt not that he would even now be nigh to drinking himself to death.”
“For what cause?”
“Mother. He loves her still, mourns her still.”
Even so dost thou, Samuel thought, watching Dean’s face, yet he said naught. Dean, at least, had Joanna, as Samuel had the Church, but Mary had been John’s one true love. Neither of them could ever fully fathom his grief.
“An... an ever there is peace again in Winchester, I hope to take him back to the old manor. ’Tis said Mother walks abroad there; perchance they might both find peace.”
Samuel frowned. “Why said thou naught ere I returned? The angels might have taken us all.”
“Faith, Sammy, ’twas far from my thoughts then. But then, may be that killing Azazel was enow.”
Samuel nodded. “May be.”
Dean fed him the last of the second bowlful of stew and brought him clean water to drink, then gave him a very small dose of poppy tincture for the pain and helped him to lie flat again. Samuel watched Dean serve himself a bowl of stew, but the fullness of his stomach and the poppy soon made him drowsy, and he was asleep again in moments.
Samuel drifted from sleep to wakefulness and back many times over the next day or two. Often when he woke, Dean was busy trying to clean and mend Samuel’s stained and shredded robe, much as he had done with the few bits of poor cloth they had had to wear when they were children. But betimes he was cooking-reheating the beef stew or preparing aught else-or crushing yarrow or checking Samuel’s bandages or the wards; seldom did Samuel catch him nodding. Whatever Samuel needed, though, he had but to speak and Dean was ready to help, even to the point of aiding him in using the chamber pot. That was humiliating, but Dean made no complaint, so neither did Samuel.
Sleep, however, was frustratingly bootless. Samuel could recall no more than flashes of dreams, and betimes he was in too much pain to sleep deeply enough to dream. Yet he could not but think that some clue to the puzzle might lie in his dreams if he could but dream properly.
“Well, the devils’ aim is clear,” Dean noted as he fed Samuel a stew of coneys, the making of which had used up a fair portion of the bread ration. “How to banish the lot is less so. I would we had some way to speak so the whole grange might hear. Have Young Dean and Young Samuel such a thing, think thou?”
Samuel had perforce to swallow swiftly. “Oh, ask me not. It hurts to laugh.”
“Sooth, Samuel.”
“I wit not. Given the thing we saw them in, the... horseless wain or whatever it was, perchance they do.”
“I wonder how such a thing would work....”
Amused, Samuel fell asleep again to Dean’s wondering aloud. Yet somehow, thinking of that far-off and now-averted future helped Samuel to dream at last:
Young Sam, who seemed closer in age to Samuel now than he had in the vision the brothers had shared on the Damascus road, delivered four other children of an age with him-two maids and two lads, and one of the lads a Moor-from an acheri demon, warned them of another demon, and led them out-of-doors onto an empty street. The wooden buildings round about were in disrepair, but a rusted bell graven with a great oak tree caught Young Sam’s eye.
“I’ve seen that bell before,” said he. “I know where we are now: Cold Oak, South Dakota. A town so haunted, every single resident fled.”
Samuel drew in a sharp breath, which his chest protested, and the pain roused him just as Dean knelt beside his bed.
“What? What is’t?” Dean asked. “Hast seen aught?”
“The-the-what was,” Samuel replied, fighting for both breath and words. “A town of ghosts... where demons played... called Cold Oak.”
Dean frowned. “I wit the name not.”
“Not here. West... where the children are. Shall be.”
“The-”
“’Twas Sam.”
It took Dean a moment to make sense of what Samuel had said. “So in this sight of that which shall not be, Young Sam was in a case like ours?”
“Not yet so bad. Saw but one demon. But the ghosts... were there already.”
“How many?”
“Too many. The folk took flight. ’Twas a ruin.”
Dean leaned back and thought. “’Tis said sites of great evil draw other evil, as rancid meat draws flies. ’Twould account for the devils appearing at this grange and not some other.”
“And for the ghosts.”
“Aye. An the place were already haunted, perchance the devils have stirred up the ghosts as well.”
Samuel listened a moment to the howling outside and the rattling of the door that were belike not from wind. “Some of the ghosts are angry,” he said. “But some about this house are sore afraid. They wish the demons gone but have not the strength to fight, nor wit they how. They seek peace long denied.”
“Denied?”
“I wit no more as yet.”
Dean sighed. “Well, rest a while. Perchance more shall come to thee.”
Samuel nodded and closed his eyes, letting himself drift. Yet nothing definite came for some time, though he sensed the crowd of fearful ghosts about the house growing. But finally he did fall asleep deeply enough to see aught:
Thorkel Longbeard stood on the ridge overlooking Griff and smiled to himself as his wicca, [1] Gunnar Herjulfsen, came nigh. “There,” said Thorkel (and Samuel knew not how he understood the Northman). “The captive says there be much gold to be found in this hamlet.”
“Aye,” quoth Gunnar, “but said he where?”
“Nay. ’Tis why I need thee, Gunnar. I would that no wight in this hamlet-man, woman, child, living or dead-shall leave or find peace until that gold be found. The Christian dogs shall know the might of our gods and yield.”
“Thou hast not asked whether I wit such a spell, Thorkel.”
Thorkel looked at Gunnar. “Wist thou?”
Gunnar made an unsure noise. “I ken the gods to ask. Baduhenna and Váli hold the keys to Valhalla. Yet they shall ask sacrifice for such a favor.”
Thorkel grinned evilly. “Then sacrifice they shall have.”
Samuel gasped in horror and sat bolt upright.
Dean was at his side in a trice. “Sammy! What is’t? What hast thou seen?”
“Dean... get pen....”
“Wist thou what happened here?”
“Not... the whole....”
“Slate, then. I’ll not risk parchment yet. Gain thou thy breath; I’ll fetch the stack of slates from the cellar.” And off Dean ran.
Samuel’s gasps had turned to groans by the time Dean returned. Dean set down the slates and helped him lie down, applied fresh yarrow where needed, and gave him more poppy. Only then did Dean fetch chalk and a slate and sit down. By then, Samuel had breath enough to speak, though slowly, and related what he had seen.
Dean had some choice West Saxon words on the topics of witches and pagans to say when he had finished taking Samuel’s dictation. And Samuel could not but agree.
Thanks to the yarrow and Dean’s rich stews, Samuel felt somewhat less sore the next day; the swelling in his face had gone down, and his many bruises had begun to change from purple to green. He still needed Dean’s help for most things, but he could feed himself, though slowly. The fearful ghosts continued to press close about the house, so much so that a sheen of ice had formed over the windows furthest from the fire and on the packets of meat Dean had placed there to keep cold. The brothers questioned whether the ghosts sought refuge or would fain speak to (or through) Samuel. But Samuel would not agree to any form of divination like a talking board, and both knew that breaking the salt line for any spirit would allow entry to all. They had therefore to wait upon Samuel’s visions, which Samuel sought only through prayer.
The wait seemed as long as the wait for Samuel’s healing. But when at last another vision came, Samuel was glad of the delay:
Five English captives, beheaded and flayed, lay before the bloodied altar where Gunnar Herjulfsen chanted a spell to summon Baduhenna and Váli. Then he struck flint with steel above the summoning bowl, and the gods appeared, standing among the slain. Each studied the offering, chose and ate a part of whichever pleased him or her, and then turned with a cruel smile to Gunnar.
When Gunnar had repeated Thorkel’s desire, Baduhenna raised an eyebrow. “And what if there be no gold?” she asked.
“Thorkel shall tell you when he is sure.”
“Oh, Thorkel shall tell us. How dares he make demands thus of the gods? We are no thanes of his, nor slaves to mankind.”
Now it was Gunnar’s smile that turned cruel, and Váli gasped as he looked down and saw chains of light binding the gods’ limbs. “Bound,” he growled. “How came we so to be bound?!”
“Ye have accepted the sacrifice,” Gunnar replied. “By this spell, ye must now perforce satisfy the one offering sacrifice. When ’tis done, ye may go; ’til then, ye shall stay.”
Baduhenna lunged at Gunnar, but the light chains held her fast, and he laughed.
“Evil,” Samuel wheezed when he had related the vision to Dean. “Great evil, thou said. Well, no greater evil have I seen, save Azazel.”
Dean handed him a cup of mulled wine. “Aye, and I fear worse is to come.”
“And all of the love of money.” Samuel drank. “Radix enim omnium malorum est cupiditas.” [2]
“Oh, do thou speak English, Sammy....”
But scarce had Samuel finished the wine when another vision appeared before his waking eyes and gave him cause to scream:
The Northmen had taken such plunder as they could find, but there was precious little of that. When searches uncovered no gold, Thorkel took those who remained alive and turned to torture. Three men he put to the blood-eagle in full sight of all, [3] but through all the screams and weeping, the tale remained the same. The captive had lied. There was no gold in Griff.
In a rage, Thorkel put every living creature in the town to the sword. And when Gunnar asked whether to bid the gods release their souls, Thorkel cried, “Nay! Here let them rot ’til Ragnarok. No peace shall there be for Christian filth!”
Thus the Northmen rode away.
And Samuel fell forward into Dean’s arms and wept bitterly.
After Samuel was at last able to speak enough to relate the final vision to Dean, the brothers kept silence a long while as they drank the mulled wine and ate Dean’s venison stew. Wearied then and sore of heart and limb, Samuel slept and woke and slept again while Dean found parchment and ink and wrote a fair copy of the full tale. He took especial care, Samuel noted, but that was no great wonder. ’Twas a solemn, woeful tale, and unlike the ghosts that hunters oft had cause to quell with salt and fire, the folk of Griff had done no harm. Dean clearly felt no less sorrow for them than Samuel did.
Some hours passed before Samuel woke to find Dean taking sealing wax from his pack. “Dean? Hast done at last?”
“Aye. Here, see thou whether the copy is good.” Dean helped Samuel sit up, then brought him the parchment and a candle to read better by.
Samuel glanced over the page and found the layout good enough. Dean had used plain black ink and had added no decoration, but that befit the tale in Samuel’s view-and besides, Dean was no great artist with a pen. Then Samuel began to read the words themselves:
Þe Deaþ Griffan
Swa God þa sarspell to Broðor Samuel of Rievaulx gesweotolede [4]
He smiled a bit at that, and Dean gently rubbed his shoulder. Samuel carefully read out the whole tale, which was just as he had told it to Dean, and nodded as he went. Then he came to the closing Dean had added:
Þus spræc Broðor Samuel. Ic Denu of Winceastre wrat hit for him for þam þe he becam micelan saras fram deofolas, se þe þe broðor of Rievaulx to sargian sohton, ond ne mæg sylfa writan. We liefaþ, hie deofolas comon to Griff for þam þe þas firencræft dydon þa Norðmenn. For witnes sette ic her min segn todæg, þam xvii. Feb. mcxlviii. [5]
Samuel nodded slowly and brushed off a few stray grains of pounce. “’Twas truly the craft more than one deed. Aye, ’tis good, Dean.” He handed the parchment back, noting that there was still room enough for a Latin translation should Abbot Aelred request one. “Is’t the seventeenth already?”
“Aye, just,” Dean replied, taking the parchment and candle back to the desk where he had been working. “’Tis half past midnight, I deem; I heard the Matins bell.” He sat down and held the stick of sealing wax above the candle flame for a moment, then dripped the molten wax onto the face of the parchment and pressed down on it with the silver signet ring he always wore on his right hand. It had been Mary’s; how Father had saved it from the fire they knew not, but Dean bore it proudly. “There, ’tis done. Perchance shalt sleep better hereafter.”
“Deo volente,” Samuel agreed. [6]
“Hast need of aught?”
Samuel thought a moment. “More stew, perchance, an thou left any.”
“Left and kept hot, for I am the best brother in all England,” Dean shot back and went to get it for him.
Samuel smiled fondly and doubted it not.
The press about the house did lessen now that the tale was told and written down. But Samuel’s sleep was no more restful, for it now seemed the demon horde sought to attack him through his dreams-no true visions, these, but nightmares terrible and filled with such fears as he had already fought for many years, of monsters fell and grievous hurts to those he loved. Dean woke him more than once when the horrors made him scream.
Finally, just after dawn, they both gave it up as a bad job, and Dean set himself to fry some bacon. “And speaking of bad jobs,” he said, “I have tried all I wit to do, but I deem thy robe cannot be saved. I shall have to find thee another.”
“What holes cannot be mended?”
“Nay, ’tis not so badly rent as that. ’Tis the staining. I would not use the whole store of soap to get such bloodstains out of white wool.”
“Well, then, ’twill serve to clothe me for the journey back to Rievaulx and be proof of our pains. I wit not whether there be any spare robes kept here, as the lay brothers may not wear our habit.”
“Mm, fair point, nor might I easily find aught to fit thy giant height, even if such spares were here.”
Samuel snorted.
They ate in pleasant silence, but outside there was still no peace. And Samuel felt no closer to knowing what to do about it. He said as much while Dean stored the bacon grease for later use in seasoning.
“Well, we have the ghosts’ tale,” Dean noted. “It would seem that Baduhenna and Váli are still bound by the Northmen’s spell, which makes clear why the ghosts are trapped thus.”
“Aye, true. Perchance we need some way to break the spell.”
“Or to repeat it.”
Samuel gasped. “DEAN!”
“Samuel, an we shift the bond-”
“Nay. Nay, I shall not offer aught to heathen gods. I wit not the full spell or the herbs needed. And even had I the knowledge, paid thou no heed to the tale? Five men they slew to draw the gods.”
“But the gods are already here.”
“And already angry!”
“So, we make trial of aught else than blood.”
“Dean, such trial could get us killed, or draw aught worse to us. And in any case, there are no trappings for a summoning here.”
Dean sighed and strode toward the fire, frustrated. “Oh, very well. That puts us back to breaking the bond, but we wit not how to do that, either, without some counter-spell.”
Samuel ran a hand over his face. “I would we had someone like Robert or Brother Asce here. Someone who might wit more than we.”
And there was the sound of a throat clearing from just inside the door.
Dean caught up the iron sword from the hearthside and spun to face the female figure that stood beneath the devil’s trap he had drawn above the door. She smiled and stepped out of the trap easily, the motion causing the firelight to catch on the many metal roundels that hung about her Roman dress. Her hair was bound up but uncovered, and her arms were bare save for bands of gold in the Celtic style. Yet she seemed not to feel the deep chill that lingered beyond the fire’s heat.
“Who are you?” Dean demanded.
A flash of confusion crossed her face before she answered in Latin, “My name is Coventina. I am a goddess of wells and springs. I wit not how I came to be bound to this well, but I have no quarrel with the Christians so long as they throw me coins now and again. I take naught else from humans, and in return I keep their wells flowing.”
Samuel translated that statement for Dean at the same time he took another look at the roundels and saw that they were indeed coins of gold, silver, and copper. He could not see them clearly, but some looked Roman, some British, some Danish, some English. He thought he even saw one or two that bore King Stephen’s visage.
Dean looked no less confused or wary. “What would you with us?”
Coventina looked at Samuel, who translated, and took another step forward. “I have no quarrel with Christians, as I said. But I take exception to being frozen out of my own well. Ye wish the demons and the ghosts gone; so do I. I have come to offer aid.”
Dean lowered his sword when Samuel translated and fixed Coventina with a searching look. Then he reached into his purse, pulled out a gold coin, and tossed it to her with a smile. She caught it with an answering smile and hung it on her belt. And Samuel knew not whether to be glad or have a headache.
Next
[1] Masculine form of wicce (witch)
[2] For cupidity is the root of all evil (1 Tim. 6:10a Vulgate; most modern translations specify “the love of money,” but cupiditas has broader meanings, as Chaucer reminds us in the Pardoner’s Tale).
[3] If you don’t know what the blood-eagle is... you don’t want to. Trust me. There’s a reason the Horrible Histories song “Literally” is about Vikings, after all.
[4] The Death of Griff / As God revealed the sad tale to Brother Samuel of Rievaulx
[5] Thus spoke Brother Samuel. I, Dean of Winchester, wrote it for him because he received many wounds from devils that sought to grieve the brothers of Rievaulx and was not able to write himself. We believe these devils came to Griff because the Northmen did this wickedness. For witness I set here my seal today, the 17th of February, 1148.
[6] God willing