Sacrifice (15 page)

   He ordered the corpse to be taken down and dumped in the woods: as a suicide, the baron’s soul was marked for Hell, and there was no point giving his earthly remains a decent Christian burial.

   “Let the wolves have him,” said Martin, “he has no further use for his castle, but I do.”

   Since then Martin had lorded it over the surrounding area. There was good hunting in the forests, and the local villages sent regular wagonloads of food and ale to keep their new master’s temper sweet. Some of the peasants had proved reluctant at first, but a couple of visits from The Company of the Talon soon persuaded them otherwise. 

   Food, ale, but no women, save those that gave themselves willingly. Martin was no more chivalrous than the next professional cut-throat, and knew that rape was considered part of a soldier’s reward, but he stubbornly refused to permit it here.

   It was his custom to stand on the turret of the keep and look out over his domain. One chill autumn evening, with the taste of winter in the air, Meurig joined him.

   The Welshman launched into an old argument. “You must let the men have their will, sir,” he urged, “they are growing restless. Look.”

   He held up his right hand, showing bruised and bloody knuckles. “I had to beat a couple of them into silence just now. The grumbling won’t stop unless you let them off the leash. There are sixty-seven men in this castle. Sixty-seven! Only eight of them have found wives, and constantly have to be on their guard.”

   Martin leaned on the parapet and glanced over the side. The wall fell away to an almost vertical precipice, almost two hundred feet high, rising above the surrounding woods. 

   “Any man who touches another’s wife, or takes a woman against her consent, will be branded,” he said, “that’s for a first offence. Second offence, he hangs. Those are Company rules. They all know it.”

   “They know it, but don’t understand. Truth to tell, nor do I. Why are you so soft on the local wenches? They’re only peasants, and German peasants at that.”

   “You know perfectly well. We can do most things to the people around here. Burn their houses, take their livestock, steal their grain. But we don’t touch their womenfolk. If we do, we’ll wake up one morning to find an armed mob outside our gates.”

   Meurig shrugged. “Then we drop a few rocks on their heads. Nothing short of a proper army could storm this place. Trained soldiers, with artillery and siege equipment, not a band of village idiots.”

   Martin stared at him lividly. “I believe it is you who has suffered a rock to the head,” he snarled, “there are nine villages within twenty miles of here. These folk breed like vermin, and they all know each other. A few hundred peasants could sit outside the castle and starve us out.”

   He stabbed his finger at Meurig. “I don’t intend to end up swinging from the bloody rafters, like the old Baron did. So you tell the men to keep their hands to themselves, or I’ll chop their pricks off and feed them to the dogs.”

   As if on cue, the sound of barking drifted up from the kennels. All proper noblemen kept dogs for hunting, and Martin wanted to be a proper nobleman. To that end, he had stolen a mastiff and a couple of wolfhound bitches from local farmers. Their pups were ugly, vicious brutes, and promised to grow big and strong enough to take down any game. 

   Meurig passed on his warning, but they did little to quell the unrest. The Company was growing bored, cooped up in this isolated castle, surrounded by miles of dense forest.

   Martin considered throwing out some of the more disgruntled spirits. Stink Hold was small, and he didn’t need so many men for a garrison. Sooner or later they would turn on each other, or the whole lot might band together and elect a new leader.

   Two days after his conversation with Meurig, he was alone in his solar on the upper floor of the keep when Henrik tapped on the door.

   “Ulrich just arrived outside the gate,” said the crippled German, “he claims fifteen riders are tearing up Obdach. Rape, killing, arson, the lot.”

   Ulrich was the headman of Obdach, the nearest village to Stink Hold. He seemed to take Martin’s lordship seriously, and was forever petitioning for the customary rights and privileges of the villagers to be upheld. To Martin, whose knowledge of German rural customs rivalled his knowledge of Ancient Greek, the man was an amusing oaf.

“Where’s Casimir?” he asked, rising from his chair.

   Henrik gave a mirthless smile. “He rode out two hours ago. Said he was going to fetch in some fresh meat. Took fourteen men with him.”

   Martin puffed out his cheeks. So Casimir had finally made his move, and broken Company law. The little turd had chafed under Martin’s authority for months, ever since they deserted from the Black Army.

   “Time to break that pretty face of his,” said Martin, “go and find Meurig, and tell him to sound the alarm.”

   He clattered over the drawbridge with forty men at his back, leaving just ten to hold the castle in his absence. Headman Ulrich also insisted on coming along, and Martin let the man ride by his side. With luck, he might get shot in the coming skirmish.

   It was as bad as Martin feared. Obdach lay some seven miles to the north-west, and he saw twists of black smoke rise from the trees long before the village came in sight. Distant screams carried on the wind, mingled with shouts and the neigh of horses.

   The village was built on two gently rising pieces of ground, divided by a ravine. A wooden bridge was built over the ravine, and a river flowed through the narrow course, far below.

   An idyllic setting, but now the timber-framed houses were on fire, and men with swords moved through the smoke, taking what they wanted and butchering those who tried to resist.

   Martin reined in for a few seconds to take in the scene. “Meurig, take half the men into the eastern end of the village,” he said, “disarm any of our lads you find. If they make a fight of it, kill them.”

   Meurig saluted and rode away with his part of the command. Martin took his men west, skirting the edge of the woods that surrounded Odbach on all sides and leading them through the entrance to the wooden stockade.

   He spotted Casimir almost immediately. The Pole was outside one of the smaller cottages, doing his best to rape a girl. She was pinned up against the wall, shrieking and cursing as he tried to get her skirts up around her hips.

   An old woman lay in the meagre little cabbage pitch beside the front door. Her head was split open, and her blood and brains soaked into the dark earth.

   Martin smothered his anger and rode towards the cottage.

   “Casimir,” he said, “leave off.”

   The Pole didn’t seem to hear him, and groped at the girl’s dress with one hand while pinning her wrists with the other.

    “Casimir,” said Martin in a louder voice, reaching for his sabre.

   Now the other man turned his head and scowled. His victim took the opportunity to bring her knee up sharply into his groin.

   Casimir’s eyes crossed and he staggered away, angry blood surging up the side of his neck.

   “Bitch,” he hissed, fumbling for his dagger.

   Martin drew his sabre, urged his horse forward a few steps and gently laid the blade’s edge against a vein in the side of Casimir’s neck.

   “I told you to leave her be,” he said quietly, “you know me, Casimir. I seldom ask twice.”

   The Pole’s lips twisted in a snarl, but he made no move for his dagger. He knew better than that.

   Martin studied the girl. She was slender, with long black hair, and comely under the layers of filth.

   His blood quickened. The rules on women were hard for all the men of his Company to follow, including himself. Martin had not lain with a woman since Hainburg.

   That was almost a year gone. Christ, it wasn’t natural.

   Against his wiser judgment, he held out his free hand to the girl. “Jump up,” he said.

   She bared her teeth and hissed at him like an angry cat.

   “Jump up,” he repeated, “or I’ll leave you here with him.”

   Her eyes flickered uncertainly between him and Casimir, who was still massaging his bruised loins. Then they moistened with tears as she saw the old woman dead among the cabbages.

   “My aunt,” she sobbed, throwing herself to the ground beside the corpse, “she tried to defend me. God have mercy on her.”

   Martin shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. His heart was a cold lump of iron, battered by years of merciless reality, but something other than lust smouldered inside him. Pity, compassion?

   He beckoned at two of his soldiers. “Arrest him,” he ordered, pointing at Casimir, “take away his weapons and bind his hands. Tonight he will stand trial.”

   Ulrich appeared at his side as Casimir was disarmed and pinioned. “You must not take the girl,” the headman said in his guttural whine, “she is my cousin.”

   Martin angrily shook him off. “I’ll wager every country girl in these parts is some cousin of yours, you inbred pig,” he spat, “but you need not worry. No harm will come to her.”

   The girl would not come, so he had his men tie her up as well, and throw her over the back of a horse. Martin was aware of breaking his own rules, but couldn’t help himself. 

   The trial was held in the hall of Stink Hold, with Martin presiding as judge and Meurig as counsel for the prosecution. Every man in the Company was summoned to attend.

   The trial was brief, since Casimir made no effort to deny his guilt. “I am a soldier, not a priest,” he declared, “and the girl was my property, to do with as I saw fit.
Praeda Preda –
the spoils of war!”

   To Martin’s alarm, there were some murmurs of agreement among the packed assembly.

   He sprang to his feet. “To hell with your Latin tags!” he yelled, “you admit your guilt, do you? Very well. Quartermaster, do your duty.”

   Henrik stepped forward, holding a red-hot poker he had plucked from a brazier. He wore a thickly padded leather glove against the heat, and the business end of the poker glowed like the bowels of Hell.

    He slowly advanced the length of the hall, holding up the sizzling length of iron like a baton. Scores of fearful eyes watched it pass. Casimir writhed and struggled in the grip of the two men holding him, but they were two of Martin’s strongest.

   “No!” Casimir shrieked, “not my face. Not my face!”

   His hose darkened with urine as Henrik pressed the end of the poker against his cheek. The ensuing scream of agony was enough to shake the ancient rafters. Casimir went on screaming for some time, until Martin lost patience and signalled at the guards to drag him out.

   “I swore to ruin those pretty looks of his,” he remarked cheerfully to Meurig, “and so I have.”

   With the trial over, he ordered supper to be served, and devoured half a capon before retiring for the night. 

   Martin slowed as he neared the top of the star. His heart and loins pulsed with anticipation, but his head was more circumspect.

   “Only if she is willing,” he reminded himself.

   He paused before entering, coughed, and gently pushed the door open.

   The girl was crouched on the floor beside the window seat, huddled up in a blanket. She raised her head as he came in, eyes wide with fear under the greasy black locks tumbling over her brow.

   “Peace,” he said, raising his hands to show he meant no harm, “you shouldn’t look at me like that. I’m not a monster.”

   He glanced at the bathtub, a huge wooden bucket, in the middle of the room. The water had cooled, and was noticeably free of dirt.

   “It took three of my men to get that thing up the stairs,” he said, “others spent the afternoon fetching water from the river and heating it over the fire in the kitchen. All so you could have a bath.”

   She made no reply. The neatly folded pile of clean clothing on the bed was also untouched.

   Martin slowly turned and dropped the bar on the door, locking it. Then he drew his dagger and approached the girl.

   She crawled away on all fours, like a frightened rabbit. Martin ignored her. He weighed the dagger in his hand, once, and then threw it out of the window.

   “There,” he said, turning back to face her. “Now I shall sleep. If you feel the urge to kill me, there are enough weapons in the room. I recommend the stool. One swift blow to the head, and I will trouble you no more.”

   Martin unfastened his cloak, let it drop and stretched out on the bed with an exaggerated yawn. He felt genuinely tired. For an hour or so he dozed, conscious of the empty space next to him, and smiled when the girl finally added her weight to the bed.

   Somewhat to his surprise, he woke up alive. He rolled over to find the girl was gone, then spied her perched on the window seat, staring through the narrow arch with her chin resting on her fist.

   She had bathed, however briefly, and donned the fresh tunic and hose laid out for her. Man’s clothing, yet it suited her bony, angular frame.

   Martin watched her for a while. “What’s your name?” he asked eventually. 

   “Diana,” she replied, still staring through the window at the mist-laden forests. The window faced north, and a faint trail of smoke in the distance marked what was left of her home.