The Red-Haired Night

The knight, head bowed, slumped exhausted, lance impaled into the soft, plowed earth. Sweat dripped past the nose guard of the battered helm. Gauntlets were thrown to the ground, revealing red hands bleeding from a long day of being encased in steel and wielding weapons.

Finally, the rider urged the exhausted black charger forward; head now raised; the warrior surveyed the battleground. There, being no living being present to be a threat, the helm was removed, the knight's head shook out a cascade of flaming-red hair, matted in sweat and blood. Wrinkling her nose at the stench of the killing ground, the knights' leader turned the horse, so she could see HER men, those that still stood.

"Men of OUR LAND, not MY LAND but OURs!

The peasant followers of the lady knight, their LORD, whooped with surprise and pleasure.

"No longer do you work for ME on my land. Today, you have earned your OWN freehold!

"It is not over. That new wealth of OURS, we will defend. Pillage the dead...many noble enemies died here...take their wealth. Share the spoils with the wives and children of OUR dead comrades,"

Energized by their lady's noble words, they all shouted, "Huzzah! Blessings and glory to the Warrior Woman!"

She nodded to recognize their accolades, then turned her eye to the huddled dispirited soldiers of the lord they had defeated. Captives now. Disarmed and stripped of armor and clothing.

"You! Minions of a dead Lord. I will not keep you captive. I will not feed useless mouths. You have choices. Die today, as dogs, give your oath never to fight me, The Lady Witch Warrior as you say, or join me as My Hell Hounds. If you fight well and are loyal, you too, may own land...but you will have to fight for it."

Her maréchal, the only professional soldier of any experience in her band, leaned close to her from his own gray charger..."My Lady, how can you trust the oaths of these men who just, this day, fought you tooth and claw?"

The lady's tired, scarred face revealed a small, sad smile. "They fear me as a witch, a wielder of magic weapons; they believe these things to the depth of their being. You will see how I have them swear."

"How many will die today in loyalty to their dead lord?"

Several stepped forward.

The Lady raised an eyebrow, her stern gaze upon them.

The proudest of the group intoned, "We took an oath from our lord to kill the witch, who bathed in the blood of innocents and who spits venom into the holy cup. We will not dishonor this oath, even though we failed in our mission."

The lady called to her camp followers, many of whom were the widows of today's dead. "See these men! Do with them what you will!"

A bizarre, ludicrous but brief chase ensued, as the stubborn men of the defeated and dead lord fled or tried to flee from the knife and cudgel wielding mass of camp followers.

In a muddy ditch, an arrow shot away, the last of them met his end...along the way stretched a line of dead and dying with a small cluster of the Lady's people kicking at the lifeless or dying bodies.

"You who would live, and return to your families, now come to me!"

The frightened, dispirited, and defeated men warily shuffled closer to the witch warrior as they knew her.

"You know my power! You know if you break your oath, I will have vengeance on you ...Your oath is the most solemn of your people, the most solemn known to men..."

They looked fearfully at each other.

"You will sweat by your testicles, by your generative power! You break your oath, and your seed will be sterile, your organs will not rise, your women will curse you and drive you from their beds!"

She then dismounted and walked among them unafraid. Before each one, she stopped her fearful gaze, piercing their heart, her calloused and scarred hand gripping their balls, twisting them. "Do you swear, as I hold you to an oath terrible, never to take up arms again against ME or and of MINE?"

From them all, save one, she got a nod of assent and they murmured, "I do."

From the last, a shriek of terror, as pain swept through the man, and he died from panic or witchcraft.

Unperturbed, the Warrior Lady explained, "In this one, I sensed his falseness...and he knew I knew and died because he knew my terrible power."

The same scene was repeated with those who would join her, except that none swore falsely. These men were then welcomed by the camp followers, fed and clothed. In due course, some became 'substitute' husbands for the women who had lost their men in the terrible battle.

Those who returned to their home, were given tunics and food for the journey and spread the word of the Lady's benevolent and terrible ways. This dual power forged the way for her armies to extend the lands that HER people now controlled.

But that was later.

This day, her first battle, her first victory had exhausted her. She had no squire, as it would not be fitting for a man to remove her armor, and few of her ladies were skilled in such matters. Alone in her tent, she struggled with the straps. So many places were rubbed raw...all movement hurt...but she could not sleep in this stinking cocoon of steel, and she had both pissed and shit herself in the course of the prolonged battle and must cleanse herself.

Finally, she called for one of the camp followers, an older woman who had been the keeper of the geese on her estate.

"Gwyneth, help me."

"My lady..." Gwyneth was used to dealing with men after battle, men who needed release from the horrors of the day...she did not know what the Lady required.

"Ah...please help me out of my armor, Gwyneth, is it?"

"Yes, my lady..."

With a minimum of effort and embarrassment, Gwyneth removed the armor.

"I will get the steel to a squire to polish with hot sand and oil, with your permission, my Lady."

"You may need to scour it with vinegar, to remove the stench first, Gwyneth."

"Yes, my Lady..."

Gwyneth smiled...she was used to her betters pretending that they had no human functions, so even this level of honesty was refreshing.

The 'Lady' was given the name Malle at birth...but now no one used that name...she was bereft of anyone intimate enough to use her birth name, at least without a title...and now since the death of her Lord Edward, she was openly reviled by her enemies as the 'Witch Warrior'.

She removed the padded surcoat that protected her from blows that might dent her armor. No one had landed any solid blows in this battle...but there were still bruises and scrapes that ached, and small cuts that bled.

Under the padding was only a linen shift that extended only to cover her bottom and privates. Horribly fouled, she was glad that it opened at the front, so that it did not need to be pulled over her head.

Gwyneth removed the fouled garment for washing, the padding would be aired out, and the buff coat surface scrubbed.

Malle now stood naked, and alone, inspecting her body for injuries. In her fortieth year, she noted she was still slim. Her training in riding, swordsmanship, and jousting had her body lean and hardy. Hunting as a training for war, made her used to the outdoors and changing weather, and left her naturally pale skin weathered a raw-red on her hands and face, but incongruous-white elsewhere.

Gwyneth returned with hot, scented water for her lady to bathe. She was startled by the lady's bold naked stance.

She turned with some embarrassment. "My Lady, I should not look."

"Just leave the water, you may go...I have a clean linen shift to sleep in, and there is food, fire, wine, and cold meat here to refresh myself."

"Yes, my Lady."

Malle washed...it was so refreshing to be able to stand by herself...the stench was only noticeable after the excitement of the battle was over.

The fire in the tent was vented through the open flap in the middle of the peak of the ten...Malle stood by it to dry herself after bathing.

After pulling the shift over herself, a longer garment this time, which reached to her ankles...she helped herself to the cold meat, fruit, and wine that were her post-battle feast.

She drank deeply to forget the horror. Tomorrow, she would meet with her Maréchal to study the battle they had won. She had studied the Romans and knew that one learns a lesson even in defeat, but never to assume there is nothing to be learned from a great victory.

Too many had died. If she had maneuvered her forces better, the enemy might have retreated from the field giving her a bloodless victory.

But for now, she wanted oblivion, and the wine would give her that.

In her dream, she refought the battle...losing and screaming in terror, as she was unhorsed and trampled underfoot.

Then another, better dream, a dream where her Lord Edward came to her in the night...these dreams she treasured over the last two years without him in her bed.

Edward came to her in various guises; sometimes, the shy, young bridegroom, sometimes the ardent experienced lover, and others, the supplicant seeking forgiveness for some slight he had committed.

And when he came to her, she experienced the same bliss, the same release she had when he was alive in her bed.

She had remained faithful to her promises, to love only him even after his death. At least, while she was awake. When she dreamt, some nights, instead of Edward coming to her bed, she saw herself going to another's.

This would have pained her soul if she were awake, but the 'unfaithfulness' in the dream was so evil, she abandoned herself to its wicked pleasures. She was already popularly considered a witch and Satan's harlot — she might as well enjoy it in her dreams.

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