The Witch's Trail Ch. 04

It was on the first morning of the fourth week since Luc's coming that the villagers of Mont Clare noticed a small plume of smoke rising on the hill which overlooked the village from the east, near the road to the cathedral. Young Henrietta was sent to investigate, being the fleetest and most fearless, and reported back that the young knight had returned set up camp, but would not yet enter the village. He extended his welcome, however, to any who desired to speak with him.

Many took up his offer, visiting to exchange a cup of wine and ask of what had transpired at the Cathedral, though the answers he gave were cryptic at best. In turn he asked of events in the village in his absence, learning of Father Joc's illness confining the old priest to his bed, and of the Father's thugs. Freed of his oversight, they were combing the village for the Witchhazel in hopes of showing up, as they put it, "that jumped-up outlander," though without any sign of success.

There he stayed, saying only that he would return at the proper time, when he had found clarity. Days passed, and though he spent his days at the small fire he tended, the young knight was sighted now and again wandering through the woods at night, seemingly lost in thought yet moving as silently as a ghost through the thick undergrowth. Claude claimed that he had seen the knight knelt in prayer in a shaft of moonlight, deep in the wilds, surrounded by a parliament of silently watching owls, but no one believed a word of it, of course. All the same, change was in the air, and the village's anticipation swelled in time with the waxing moon.

It was on the morning of the night of the full moon that a message arrived, warning that Father Joc was on his deathbed and demanding the young knight attend him. Luc left at once, Tonnere as always at his side. The village children surrounded him and cheered as he walked through the town, but the grim cast of his face did not alter, nor the shadows under his eyes lighten. It was only as he arrived in the town center that he paused. He stared, face setting harder, at the newly-built gibbet, its rough timbers now forming edge of the town square, a noose already dangling from its crossbeam. Luc's gaze swept the square to see the same group of heavyset men he had met in the woods, and seeing his attention on them, they sneered and made mocking gestures of hanging and strangling. He turned his gaze from them without responding and walked on.

Finding themselves ignored, the children dispersed as Luc arrived at the church and tethered his horse, but as he reached the church's door, the wind changed and a scent stopped him in his tracks. A teasing floral scent... and one that he recognized. Each time the witch had visited him, this was the smell of her skin, lingering even after she had vanished.

He followed the scent to one of the village's small market stalls, where Michel, a minor trader, had set out a meager array of perfumes on the thin board of his stall. It was the work of a moment (to the great amusement of Michel himself) to determine which of the scents on offer was the one he sought, which the trader clearly thought intended as a gift for a lady. Inquiring into its purchase, Luc nearly choked at the cost of even the smallest vial, comparing it to the cost of feeding Tonerre for a year and finding little difference. The trader laughed at his dyspeptic expression and leant in close, slipping the tiny vial of the perfume into a pocket of the knight's tunic with a theatrical wink.

"My little Henrietta, well, she is so very fierce and headstrong, yes? No man may approve of poaching, of course, lest God and Father Joc strike him down, no matter how great the need... but a father's gratitude for his daughter's safety, well, could even God begrudge that?" Michel winked once more at the knight and turned to resume crying out his wares to the public. Luc essayed a thanks to the man's back, seemingly forgotten already, and turned his feet once more to the church.

The young knight paced through the small church without a glance at its empty benches and the small stained glass that was its greatest glory. He presented his summons to the brute who stood outside the door to Father Joc's private chambers, sharing a Look that made clear that their encounter in the woods was not forgotten, and was allowed inside.

Lying on his thin cot, Luc could well enough believe that Father Joc was soon to depart this mortal coil. The rise and fall of his chest was scarcely perceptible, his skin an ashen grey, and it was only slowly that his eyes swivelled to face his visitor. One stick-thin arm raised and gestured him nearer, and Luc knelt down, leaning in close, allowing his hand to be taken in straw-like fingers.

"I am the last, you know," Father Joc said weakly, gradually turning his head to meet Luc's eyes. "I will not be replaced as priest. The Cathedral can neither spare the body nor the funds to maintain the chapel here. Do you understand what that means?"

"Not entirely," Luc admitted.

"It means one more step toward the rule of heathenry!" Father Joc said with sudden fire, spindly fingers crushing into Luc's hand. "It means the further weakening of the mother church and her faithful. You are our last hope to stop it."

"How?"

"The authority of the church, and thus of the Lord, must be maintained! You are not a man of the cloth, but as a Templar you are sworn to the Church's ends. Rid the village of this wretched witch and its rulership will be yours by the endorsement of the church, as the Charter of Mont Clare requires."

"And what does the Church ask for this great boon, other than the completion of my quest?" Luc asked carefully. Father Joc gave him a conspiratorial wink and what he likely thought a cunning smile.

"Wise, my boy, wise. The request is little enough; that you enforce the faith of the people of Mont Clare and ensure that their much-needed tithes continue to bolster the Cathedral."

"The villagers may be... reluctant to give tithe when there is neither chapel not priest," Luc pointed out.

"A ruler may Levy such taxes as are needed, no? The people of Mont Clare must provide, whether willing or no."

You would make of me a Guy de Gisborne, Luc thought.

"And how would this arrangement be concluded?" He asked instead. His fire spent, Father Joc released the younger man's hand to gesture at a vellum scroll on his desk across the room, head resting back to his pillow once more.

"Signed, sealed and sworn," he said, exhaustion clearly pulling at his eyelids. "You have but to complete your task..." Sleep stole over the old man, a sleep that Luc suspected would be his last. He rose, turmoil burning stronger within him than ever before, and took the vellum scroll as he departed.

Stepping out of the church, he stuffed the scroll into his belt pouch and remembered that he had he had one task yet unfinished before his final choice could be made. Reaching into his tunic, he drew out the perfume he'd been given and pulled its cork. Its scent wafted to his nose and he caught it tightly, holding it in his memory, and stoppered it once more.

He set out into the market, his eyes serving no greater purpose than to keep him from running into any passers by or stalls as he followed his nose. Through alleyways and around disguised brandy stills he wove, stopping now and again to unstopper the vial and check that his recollection was correct. Several times he was sure he had travelled back on his own path, yet be lead somewhere new. At last, the trail led him to a curtained-off alcove between two vintners, the smell of herbs drifting from within making it no more than a dozen paces before the smell of a nearby tanner overwhelmed it. There were no signs or symbols, nothing that would mark it out as his destination... nothing but foreknowledge of who dwelt within.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed the curtain aside and entered the witch's lair. Inside was dimly candle-lit, the air thick with incense and drying herbs, but Luc could notice little more than the pair of blue eyes inches before his own. Lips pressed to his in a startling kiss and then she withdrew as much as was possible within the tiny space, placing a table strewn with silver curios between them.

"Congratulations, hero!" She said with a mocking twist to her smile. "You have found the heart of Mont Clare's corruption." Luc said nothing, his mind racing; not a single one of the speeches he'd been taught seemed appropriate. She reached out to a shelf to her right without looking and drew down a blue glass bottle, stoppered with a cheap cork.

"See here, hero, the vile poison that cured Farmer Vallette of the pox and stopped it spreading to his wife... and their lovers. See here," she placed the first aside and drew another vial, this one yellow, milky fluid sloshing slowly within. "Poison indeed! It can steal the reason of good folks... and it cruelly stole away the pain of M. Caron's leg when the tree he was felling crushed it beyond repair and only the saw remained as cure." She placed the bottle down next to the other and gestured at the bundles hanging above his head. "And of course, the foul herbs that have prevented more pregnancies in this village, and more starving children, than piety ever managed. Well?" She demanded, as he stood stone silent, watching. She took his stillness as provocation and rounded the table to stand before him, grasping a bundle of herbs in passing to shake them in his face. "And here, the Witch herself! Well? What will you do? Burn me with my herbs?"

Absurdly, the only thing that Luc could think about was how small she was, barely reaching halfway up his chest. This was the great terror he had sought? He reached out to take her wrist and saw how her forearm disappeared into his hand. Still silent, he reached down to grasp her other hand and draw them together, one of his hands easily holding both, then took a length of rope from a nearby shelf. She opened her mouth to speak but he cut her off, his deep tone reverberating from the close walls.

"You have taunted and teased, drawn me by the nose along a path of your choosing," he said sternly as he drew the rope around and between her wrists and leant far down, seeing only laughter in her blue eyes. "I will have satisfaction." Holding the end of the rope in one hand he led her behind the small table and to the stool set behind it. He settled himself on it, checking that it would hold his weight without difficulty, and with a tug on the rope pulled the Witchhazel across his lap. She sputtered what sounded like protests but he ignored them as he lifted her green woollen skirt and brought one wide, hard hand down across her bottom.

Hidden from her sight Luc needed not worry about appearances and allowed himself a small smile at her squeak. It did not deter him from what he saw as right, however, and he delivered what he decided fair.

"Thirty strikes to this lovely bottom," he said, the smile on his face not making its way into his voice. "One for each day of the hunt you have led me." The pale skin of her ass reddened switfly under his callused hand, his other hand keeping her stretch out across his lap with his grip on the rope. Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven... and then he was done, his hand resting on the smooth curve of her flank, the heat rising from her warming his fingers.

"Thank you so very much for my correction, sir knight," she said, and the coyness dripping from her voice served to inflame him further.

Lifting her wholly by the waist, he seated her upon the table, her long legs pale under the drawn-up skirt. He leant in to kiss her, feeling her breasts crush against his shirt, and her slender fingers, still bound, untie the thong that held closed his trousers.

"Take your prize, sir knight," she breathed into his ear as he sprang free and he did, kissing her again and drawing her bound hands up and over his head to drape around his neck. Her smooth hips rode him eagerly, finding his rhythm and challenging him, her feet behind him pushing him on. Lost in the smell of flowers and herbs and her, clean sweat and honest hunger, his peak crept up almost without his notice, until he was crying out into her lips as her voice matched him, standing and holding her to him, wanting nothing more than more and more of her.

He lowered her back to the table as the moment passed, and with a wink and demure flip of her leg and skirt, she slipped off the table to her feet and away to his sight, scooping up those bottles and implements that had been knocked over in their passion. A moment's doubt nagged at Luc as he refastened his trousers: had he acted dishonorably? Had he taken advantage of a helpless lady, for she was doubtless no monster?

Perhaps his thoughts were loudly declared upon his face (though how the witch could see his expression from behind he did not know), perhaps the thoughts themselves were loud enough that she heard it. Regardless, he felt small hands on his shoulders, lifting her up to behind his ear, and though she spoke quietly, it was with absolute certainty.

"I am never helpless."

The weight of her hands lifted and he spun to find himself alone, no rustle of curtain or cloth to signify her absence, simply alone with a small jumble of discarded rope on the floor. For a moment he stood, running his hand along the stubble on his chin, then he nodded once and left, returning to Tonerre with thoughtful steps.

As he left town once more and accumulated his usual hangers-on, he called the pack of children to him, and spreading around a few small coins (representing more of his complete worldly possessions than he might have wished to admit), gained their glad agreement to spread word among the villagers. Come moonrise he would return to the village square in which he had first pledged his quest, he told them, and there all questions would be answered. He would say no more as he returned up the dusty trail to his camp once more to wait out the noonday sun.

Curiosity is an itch that must be scratched, tension must eventually break, and so it was that come nightfall the whole of the village of Mont Clare had gathered in the square. Torches had been lit and set in sconces for light, though a few were yet held, some alongside scythes, pitchforks or similar. The mood was uncertain, and the muttering crowd was not a mob, by any means, but it had heard about mobs and was keeping its options open depending on how things went.

Luc arrived in silhouette, lit by the massive orange orb of the full moon rising at his back. He led his horse to the square where he had first announced his intentions, tying the horse to a post at the square's edge. He walked to the very center of the crowd, addressing none. At the foot of the gibbet, standing his full height, he started to draw his sword, paused, and returned it fully to its sheath.

"People of Mont Clare!" He shouted. Faces at the back craned over shoulders and a few voices asked him to repeat himself. He looked around and, seeing no other option, lifted himself up onto the gibbet's stage to address them all. He paused once more, and rather than the dramatic tone of speechgiving, pitched his voice to carry across a battlefield.

"People of Mont Clare- I stand before you, one who was lately an outsider, yet has come to know and love you as my own. I have walked the paths of your village and the rows of your vineyards, shared in your bread and your wine, and come to think of you as my own folk.

And yet I came here with a quest, to which I have sworn my soul in oath. I swore that when the full moon once again looked down upon Mont Clare, the soul of your Witch would be mine. The full moon will rise this night, and I would fulfill my oath. And in doing so, become Lord of this village." He paused to allow the gathered crowd time to consider this. Near the back, the blacksmith Thibault essayed an uncertain cheer, but it withered on the vine without blossoming. This was simply too great a revelation to be swallowed without some chewing and perhaps a glass of wine.

"Can't no man be lord of Mont Clare without the blessings of the Father, dead these last hours," called a voice from the back of the crowd, and Luc met the eyes of the thug from the woods with a nod. He drew the Father's scroll from his belt pouch, unrolling it and holding it high. He'd had time to read it at his camp, and as he'd expected, the transaction it contained was couched in metaphor and euphemism, a veneer of glory and honor over a cold transaction.

"That is truth. And here is the endorsement of the Father, signed in his own hand!" He handed down the scroll so that the nearest literate member of the crowd could confirm his words. "As says the final word of the Father, I hold his endorsement upon two conditions: first, that I swear that I shall, to the best of my abilities, maintain the faith of Mont Clare through any conditions. I do so swear," he paused, allowing a moment's silence in which the oath might hang.

"Second, that I complete my quest: that I claim the body and soul of the Witchhazel. So I intend, and so-" Here his pause had no artifice, his eyes going faraway for a moment. The look of a man preparing for a leap of faith was unmistakable and the crowd leaned in, breath held. The young knight's eyes turned back out from their look within and the closest thought he gave the tiniest of nods before he turned his head to a robed figure in the crowd, and when he spoke, his voice held no quaver.

"Mirelle Sanzette, called WitchHazel- I ask your hand in matrimony." The spreading gasp was as a chorus as Mirelle threw back her hood, blue eyes bright as she smiled up at her pursuer. The hands of the villagers around her took up helping holds and as one they lifted her up to the platform and the young knights' embrace.

"My beloved knight," she said, curled so comfortably in the crook of his arm that it was as though she'd never been anywhere else, "I accept." There was a great cheer among the people of Mont Clare to accompany their kiss, and though some may have muttered and cursed, they were exactly the sort of folk whose approval one hopes not to hold.

The village's elders agreed that the knight had indeed met the conditions of the Father's bequest, for if matrimony is not a claim upon the body, heart and soul of both husband and wife, what is? It was on the following summer equinox that the pair were married under a full moon, and under their care the people and village of Mont Clare flourished. Long and well did they live, and many happy children they bore, and to this day, the folk of Mont Clare celebrate the Festival of the Empty Gallows, though few recall its origins. Should you find yourself in Mont Clare at the height of the summer, when the festival is held in the light of moon and torch, raise a glass to the to the joy of the hunt... and the test of the worthy hunter.

Thus we come to the end of this particular Trail, hopefully to the satisfaction of all. And now... until something else inspires me, I believe I will lower my quill and wander another path for a time. Requests and suggestions are most welcome if you'd like to tempt me, else I'll be back when the moon is right.

Until then, filthy dreams, darlings.

SLH