The Ravens’ Banquet (25 page)

Her hand barely touched my arm but lingered over it. She half turned away, showing me her profile, and filling me with a desire to stroke her face.

“It was… what needed to be done,” she replied, voice barely above a whisper. “I do in this place what I want to do, as do all who share this life with me. And last night I wished the companionship of a man.”

I grew angry at her words. “The companionship of any man or the companionship of me? Tell me what your heart says because you have confounded my head and my own heart lies heavy in its fullness!”

She turned to me again and her face became less harsh for a moment at hearing my words.
“Rikard
let the White Lady unfold what must be. Let it be Her time that governs us and not mine or yours. We shall all see what comes of it as each day passes.”

“I think you speak not of the will of the White Lady but of the will of the Oma,” I replied.

“They are one in the same, don’t you see that?”

My frustration grew stronger with her words.

“Then it is time we had an audience with the Oma once again,” I told her sharply. “I will work in the mine today, but this eve, by God, I shall have news of what lies ahead for us.”

But my words did not seem to frighten her.

“Your companion has already made the same demand. I will tell the Oma and we shall meet if she so wishes it. There is no deceit here, that you should have realised by now.”

Her attitude enflamed me with anger and desire both. I would have seized her then and there in my arms had not Christoph been a stone's throw away. Yet I held my passions and turned from her.

“Come, Englishman!” cried Christoph rising from his place. “It’s time for us to go to work and play the badgers two. The silver won't fill our baskets while we scratch our arses here.”

And so we rigged ourselves for the damp walk to the mine. I was sullen as he prattled and taunted me, as usual. That day I hacked and hewed at the ore, pouring out my anger at the cold wet wall of glittering grey. And so the hours passed as I worked and waited for the afternoon's gloom to descend. Christoph blustered that he would throttle the crone unless he got the truth out of her – and
his
share of the silver. And so our day passed until both of us were topped to the brim with impatience.

The rain had mercifully held off all the day, and we arrived back at the encampment dry and to find all the Sisters thereabouts, some busy about the fire cooking the evening fare. I searched out for Rosemunde, but could spy her nowhere. I supped like a wolf, famished as I was, and awaited her arrival and that of the Oma. Christoph had just tossed his wooden bowl to the ground and wiped his mouth when Rosemunde appeared.

“If it is still your wish to speak with the Oma, then come with me. She has told me that she will tell you what you wish to know.”

Again, we trod along that twisting path up the hillside, though this time not in torchlight but rather in the failing daylight. Summer was already fleeing the world; the chill came quickly as the sun fell low among the tree trunks. This day, overcast as it had been, had already killed the warmth of the Earth. I shivered as Rosemunde led Christoph and me up the slope.

Rosemunde held aside the mud-encrusted red cloth that served as the Oma's door and we three entered the hovel. The unpleasant smell struck my nostrils straight away like the stink of some serpent’s den and the Oma’s ancient yet steely voice called out to us.

“Come, Rosemunde! My good daughter! Bring to me the soldiers who have helped us in our time of need.”

I could only just discern her form on the floor of the place, the lamps casting an orange glow and throwing a hundred shadows across the room. Indeed, the arching roof of her house, made as it was of woven boughs, looked alive and ready to close upon us.

"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.

T
HE 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.