Quest of Hope(65)

There remained something about the old one, however, that troubled Baldric. He studied her as she whispered with her daughter. Perhaps it was her tone, perhaps her gestures, he couldn’t be sure. She haunted him, yet something drew him to her. And when the young beauty dashed away, it was the elder whom he resolved to capture.





Chapter 10



A VOW KEPT





Baldric pressed himself into the earth as the witch passed near, then clambered to his feet. Leaving his horse behind, he jumped over a large rock and grunted his way through a short ravine only to realize that his quarry was no longer in sight. He stopped and peered into the wood but could only hear the heaving of his own chest. Then, to his rear, he heard a clang of metal and the snapping of wood. He whirled about and stared into the forest. Seeing nothing, Baldric hurried westward in the direction of the forests that lay just beyond the Villmar road. He had not traveled but a hundred paces, however, when the old woman suddenly appeared in front him, staring and pointing each of her forefingers toward the man’s eyes.

Baldric gasped. He stood perfectly still and trembled as the witch inched her way toward him. Her mesmerizing gaze was fixed on his shifting eyes and she moved closer. The aged woman came within the smell of his breath and held her ground. Her arms dropped slowly to her side and she smiled a large, toothless smile. Her eyes flickered, fearless and cunning. She squinted, then leaned toward Baldric’s sweating face. She nodded and set her jaw.

Baldric slowly relaxed. She had not struck him dead. He carefully turned his face squarely into hers. The witch said nothing, and the silence was more than Baldric could bear. “I … I am Baldric, woodward of the abbey of Villmar.”

“I know,” she answered.

Baldric swallowed hard. “H-how do you know me?”

The witch moved closer again, staring silently.

Baldric shuffled his feet.

The woman said nothing for another long moment, then spoke in a low, commanding tone. “Look at me.”

Baldric was confused but obediently bent a little closer and studied her carefully. He thought she seemed strangely familiar. Her features were plain, almost homely, her hair was gray, save the few stubborn strands of blonde not yet lost to time or sorrow. Her bony body was bent and awkward. She seemed hard and menacing, yet something in her blue eyes betrayed a hint of mercy that lingered despite what she had become. A blurred image slowly formed in his mind’s eye. “No!” he gasped. “It cannot be! You cannot be! Gottin Himmel…!”

The witch spoke. Her tone was firm, sharp but not hateful. “Yes, brother Baldric, ‘tis true. Look at me. I am Sieghild, your sister.” Her voice became bitter.

Baldric was speechless. He stared at Sieghild with eyes that were as wide as one who has seen a ghost. She now stood before him as a broken woman—a tragic melánge of anger, relief, and loneliness that would have melted the heart of a gracious man. But Baldric could only gape.

The sounds of approaching men startled the two. They looked to their rear and saw movement. “You, Sieghild,” said Baldric, “they’re after you. Run—now!”

Somehow sadly disappointed with the overdue reunion  , Sieghild nodded, and the two rushed together through the forest. Brother and sister ran side by side up the face of a long-sloped ridge and into a small clearing. Baldric knew it well and knew they were drawing close to the roadway where he was certain no foreign men-at-arms would dare venture.

“Hurry, Sieghild!” he cried. “Hurry!” Baldric cast a nervous glance behind and to his dismay, he saw a mounted man bearing down on them. “Oh God! Sieghild, to the road … faster … to the road … a rider … on my horse!”

The woman turned a half-glance and saw the rider straining toward them on the frothing, winded nag. Maybe, she thought, maybe all is not lost… She raced across the clearing and set her eyes on the thin wall of trees between herself and the busy road. Her light feet whisked her through knee-high weeds and she began to outdistance her heavy-legged brother. Sieghild’s gray hair streamed behind as her chest heaved and her mouth sucked hard for air. She desperately searched her mind for an incantation to cry into the wind—one that might send both horse and rider into hell’s fires.

Baldric bellowed as the knight flew past him. And he could do no more than watch helplessly as the soldier raised his long-sword in midair. He pressed his aching legs hard against the earth as the knight gained on his helpless sister, and he roared what blasphemies his failing breath could muster.

Sieghild turned her head toward the sound of hooves, but she saw only the flash of steel as it fell from the sky. The sharp edge of the sword sliced through her feeble body, cleaving her from the edge of her neck to the center of her belly. The hapless wretch fell apart like a brittle leaf in winter and crumpled lifeless to the ground.