Hermitage Castle, 1320
To celebrate hitting 100 subscribers (and thank you all!), here is the first chapter from The Standing Dead!
“Sire!” Sir William de Soulis sat bolt upright in his bed, the movement of the covers causing the candle flames to gutter slightly. The hammering at his door came once more. “Sire! You must awake!” William climbed out of bed, hurrying to the door and swearing under his breath.
As soon as he turned the handle, a figure burst into his chambers. Allan Gordon, his retainer and most trusted servant hurried in, a torch in his hand and his sword swinging from his belt. “Allan? What in God’s name is this? You’ll wake the whole castle!”
Allan didn’t reply, instead he went to the window, looking out intently. Joining him there, William saw the light of torches carried by the mob that approached the castle and his insides clenched with fear and anger.
Stepping away from the window, William spoke again. “Allan? How close have they come?”
“They are nearing the outer gate, Sir William. What would you have us do?” William gathered himself and answered, “Go down to the gate, prepare to repel the villains.” Allan nodded and hurried out of the room.
William heard Allan command the guards outside the bedchamber to join him and nodded approvingly. This rabble would be dispersed, just as the others, and then there would have to be a reckoning, another one. William looked into a dark corner of the room, “It appears your gluttony has, once again, brought strife to my gates. Will you never be satisfied?” No answer came from the shadows, other than the glow of two small, red eyes.
As he descended the stairs to join his men in rebuffing the gang of locals, William became aware of a quiet descend on the castle. He felt the shadow’s presence, the malice and power that emanated from it calmed his nerves. As he entered the castle’s great hall though, he stopped dead, shocked into stillness. The mob had gained access to the castle, and stood before him now, torches flickering, weapons bared. “What is the meaning of this? You have no right to stand in my hall without my grace. You live on my lands! I am your lord!”
“You are a witch! In league with devils!” The deep, powerful voice of Father Coram, the village priest, echoed around the walls, silencing even William. The man strode forward, his dark robes hemmed with dirt from the march to the castle. His right hand held a rough-hewn crucifix, the white of his knuckles harsh against the darkened wood.
Staring at the symbol thrust at his face, William let his eyes move to those of the priest, and he smiled. “Am I a witch, Father?” He drew himself up, his shoulders back, eyes blazing as they swept around the faces of his tenants. “Who here would dare lay such a charge before their lord?”
“I would, witch bastard.” William spun around, his bearded face shifting from ugly confidence to shock and betrayal. Allan stood forward from the side of the gang, his right hand resting on his sword hilt. William was struck dumb as the man he trusted more than anyone else continued. “I have heard you consort with your demon familiar in your chambers, instructing it to visit violence upon people who have committed no sin other than to live under your fiefdom.”
Father Coram, whose expression had begun to betray his fear, visibly relaxed as Allan continued his condemnation of his lord. “Angus White, in the sight of God, tell us what evils the witch and his demon did to you.”
Angus, the village blacksmith, stepped forward, his huge, scarred hands clenching and unclenching as he stared at William, fierce blue eyes glaring from under his thick hair. “Aye. Well, one of the witch’s horses threw a shoe, causing its rider to be thrown to the ground. It were a simple mistake, and one of barely any that I have made in service of this castle and its lords.” Here the big man paused, anguish rippling over his face.
Father Coram laid a hand on his shoulder “You are safe here my son, God is with you.” Angus nodded to the priest and continued. “Well, the next night, I was woken by Maggie. She was crying floods. She had gone to see our little boy, but he had been taken. There was nothing in his cot but blood and rags. It was the demon! It was sent as revenge for a simple error!”
The blacksmith was weeping now, tears running down his dirt-streaked face. Allan grasped the arm of his comrade, guiding him back among the crowd before turning back to William, his face a mask of fury. “Do you deny that was your doing, witch?”
William paused, staring at Allan levelly, his mind racing — how much longer would he have to stall for? He felt the shadow still, he was protected. As he opened his mouth, the sound of hurrying, metallic footsteps stopped him. His guards were filling the hall behind him with pikes, maces and armour.
William smiled - he didn’t need to look to know they were armed and ready. “Traitor!” he hissed at Allan, drawing his sword. “All of you filthy paupers will sorely regret this treachery, but you, you treacherous bastard, your death will see such suffering that the Devil himself would weep.” Raising his blade, he shouted “Guards! To me!”
The impact of the pole staff into his lower back drove the air from William and he fell, the pain in his kidneys joined by a hot bloom in one of his knees as it smashed against the stone floor. With one arm, William propped himself whilst the other clutched his back as another blow hammered his ribs. “To yourself, ye devil’s bastard.” Through the red haze of pain, William recognised the voice - Gordon, his man-at-arms. He was utterly betrayed.
Allan strode forward, Angus at his side. Together they grabbed William’s arms and hauled him to kneeling. William cried out as his damaged knee sang with pain, and Angus wrenched at his shoulder. “Hold your tongue, witch!”
William’s vision was filled with the robes of Father Coram. Another villager, William could not see who, stood just behind him, holding the village’s bible. Through his pain, William sneered. “Come then, Father, deliver your righteousness.”
William’s dark eyes lifted to meet the fierce gaze of Father Coram, crucifix still clutched in his hand. His lips contorted into some semblance of a smile, an ugly, pained one. “It will serve no purpose, priest. I serve a greater power than that which hides behind wooden men on sticks. I will rise above Death as you all burn in Purgatory.”
He saw the crucifix lower slightly, and for a moment felt a surge of victory. Then Coram’s other hand delivered a vicious backhand to William’s face, the priest’s clerical rings carving bloody furrows in his cheek.
His head rocked and rang with the impact, and if he had not been held by Allan and Angus, William would have collapsed. Coram loomed over him, his face red and furious. “Devil’s bastard scum! There is no greater power than the Lord, none but Jesus Christ may have dominion over Death!”
As William cleared his head, feeling the throb and warmth from his face, anger surged in him. “Villains! Worthless, useless cunts, you’ll all bleed for this. I’ll see you all gutted and hung in gibbets!” He spat at the priest’s feet, and felt Allan change the grip on his arm and shoulder, before a clubbing blow across the back of his head felled him again.
As he hung in his captors’ arms, lights dancing before him, William was aware of Father Coram speaking again. “Aye, see us gutted and bled by your familiar, your demon imp? Where is your creature now, witch?”
Now that the question was asked William realised, through his fog of pain, that he did not feel its presence any more. He shook his head, hearing the sticky impact of his blood hitting the floor. Shaking his head, he tried to form an answer, another threat, but he could not force words out of his mouth.
Father Coram took his silence as answer enough and addressed the mob. “The witch has no response to the word of God! His demon has fled before the power of the Lord! Now brothers, bind the witch and bring him.” Some of the villagers moved forward and bound William’s wrists and ankles.
He was hauled onto shoulders, carried out of his castle and dumped onto a waiting cart. As he lay there, fear starting to take hold, William cast his eyes around for a familiar, red-eyed shadow, but it was nowhere to be seen.
The cart jerked into movement, bouncing William’s head off its wooden boards. The jolting, uneven motion made him nauseous, and he was barely able to roll onto his side as he vomited, the acrid smell of his bile mixing with the harsh metallic scent and taste of his blood. Then the world dissolved into a haze of sound and pain, and he was unaware of anything else.
The cart came to a stop almost as suddenly as it had started. The motion brought William back to consciousness, just as two of his guards climbed up into the cart and dragged him onto the ground. His injured knee collapsed as his feet hit the floor and William fell to the floor with an agonised scream. He was hauled to his feet and dragged forward, feebly crying.
The mob had formed a circle within a series of standing stones. Through the pain, William recognised the location - they were at Ninestane Rig, the mob had brought him not three miles from his home. Father Coram stood, his back to William, his dark robes silhouetted by the flickering light of a fire.
As the men approached, dragging a struggling William, the priest turned to allow them entry into the circle, smiling. In the centre of the stones stood a large cauldron, flames licking its base. William recoiled, trying desperately to escape. Unable to, he was brought before the great metal pot, water bubbling and boiling inside it.
The shadow watched, unseen by any of the men and women there. Its red eyes surveyed William’s situation, and it was unsettled. This man had been good, there had been so much blood shed for it, and these people surrounding him had made good sport. But, the shadow considered, maybe now it was time to abandon this one. It had lived for so long, and these humans were to it as mayflies were to them.
Father Coram was speaking to William. “Now, witch, by the grace of God, you have a chance to save your immortal soul. Swear allegiance to God and Jesus Christ and your end will be quick and merciful. If you do not relinquish your loyalty to darkness, then God will punish you.”
William’s eyes, darted around, panic setting in, until he saw the red eyes glowing from the darkness. He started to smile, all was not yet lost. But then the shadows shifted, the eyes faded and were gone. William felt his insides turn to ice water; despite the heat of the fire and metal in front of him, he felt chilled to his bones.
Despair filled William’ heart, he knew all was lost now. He raised his head to stare at the priest, and then at the faces surrounding him. He would not die a hypocrite, that at least he could do. “I will not yield to your false God on a tree. At the End Times, I will be risen and you all will burn”.
Lowering his head again, he tried to spit at the priest’s gown, but a thick, bloody ball of spittle simply hung to his chin. Father Coram stared at this beaten, broken man before him and nodded. “Very well.” Then the priest addressed the men holding William.
“Feet first.”