It Was I

I killed her father.

Little Alodie, maybe twelve years old now, staring up at me with eyes so wet and blue, just like her old man. O, if she only knew. Would she take that knife flecked with potato skin and thrust it into my belly? Or would she prefer to cut my throat and watch the blood pour down my chest? What sweet justice it would be for her to watch me die. At night she would finally sleep soundly knowing that her father’s killer lay in a shallow grave, his soul burning in hell for his misdeeds.

“Did you need something, William?” she asked. I told them all to call me William.

“No,” I said, eyeing the glint of candle light on her blade. “Just watching.”

Little Alodie smiled and resumed chopping potatoes beside her mother.

I killed her husband.

Elizabeth, who bore the scars on her face. After slaying him, I ordered one of my men to cut out her tongue to stop her screaming. The young lieutenant, Lord Trumane’s middle son, was inexperienced in battle. He struggled with the woman, his blade slipping across her cheeks making crimson criss-crosses. He gave up and tossed her aside, the screaming having ceased, in any case.

“Why don’t you sit by the fire with the men?” she asked, the scars like cat whiskers on her paper-white skin.

The men. In truth, they were but boys and graybeards. It was four years ago that we sacked the village and slayed their real men—a generation lost like the melting snow of spring. It need not have been so violent. But they were fierce defenders who, in my estimation, preferred to die rather than surrender to us their homes, their labor and their women. Back then, we laughed at such boldness from simple villagers. In the end, their deaths were meaningless; we took everything they had. To this very day, the village remains under the thumb of Trumane.

I nodded to Elizabeth and left the kitchen, my eyes lingering on her smile. How could she smile? There must be immeasurable pain beneath the surface, something she keeps private. I wanted—nay, needed—that it should come forth and make itself known.

“William!” came a voice. “William, old boy, there you are.” A burly arm fell across my shoulders, ale spilling from a wooden tankard. “This fellow here,” continued Osgar, a drunken bull of seventeen years, “this fellow is the greatest!” His red beard brushed my neck, breath stinking of the soured ale.

“Easy does it,” I said, patting him on the back. “The night is young.”

I killed his brother.

I have yet to learn the man’s name, as Osgar will not speak much of him. But I have dined with Osgar’s family, been served at their table as their guest, and they recounted, among other family lore, the tale of his death on that day. I have deduced that he was one of the many with whom I engaged in man-to-man sword combat. I bested him quickly; three moves, if memory serves. A red-headed child looked on in horror, and fled when his older brother was disemboweled before him, the ropey intestines flopping to the dirt, blood everywhere.

By the fire sat old Ejnar, once the fierce warrior, now a plump old man with a whispy white beard and balding head. “Dear William,” said the old man, “how nice to have you here with us. Your presence during this past year’s harvest been to us a godsend.” He rested his coarse hands across his belly as the firelight animated his doughy face in flickers of brilliant amber. “Never have I seen such a strong back as this one here,” he declared, gazing around the fire to the others, all of whom smiled warmly and nodded in approval.

I killed his grandchild.

Our band of archers, by my order, had unleashed their fire-tipped arrows, which found place in so many straw-thatched roofs. The flames darkened the sky and brought a hellish red inferno that consumed the village. I found her by the well in a small cottage not yet aflame, attempting to conceal herself in a mound of bedding hay. But her whimpering betrayed her. Our raid was all but over, the men busy loading their winnings onto the horses. There was time to cast aside the hay and grab the shrieking girl by the wrist. I held her high, her feet danging over the dirt floor. Such a pretty thing, she was. Aged fifteen or sixteen by my reckoning. Tears came from her bright green eyes, alabaster streaks over earth-stained cheeks. There was time to throw her on the bedding hay and tear open her dress. Time to grab her by the hair and flail her about until her shrieking ceased. Time enough to have my way with her. And when it was over, she lay there still, without breath or heartbeat. In my boorish, violent lust, I had left her bludgeoned to death.

There came a coarse and hearty bout of laughter. Ejnar threw back his head and slapped at his knee. Osgar chuckled mightily like a big, mischievous boy, his eyes rolling drunkenly in his head. Little Alodie had come into the firelight and was performing a dance, her delicate fingers pinching the ends of her dress, petite calfskin shoes tapping and sliding in fanciful movements. The performance ended with a thunderous applause. Elizabeth called her back to the kitchen as tankards were topped up and the fire spit sparks from a new log.

“What’s the matter, William?” asked Osgar, leaning forward from his perch.

Ejnar grunted cheerfully. “He’s a quiet one. Always thinking. Have you not noticed?”

“Aye,” said Osgar. “Have I, indeed. Tell us, William. What thoughts occupy your mind so constantly?”

I swallowed uneasily, my throat dry. “’Tis of no consequence,” I said, mustering a smile.

“O, come now, lad,” said Ejnar, the wood of his chair creaking under his shifting weight. “You are among friends. Whatever vexes you, vexes us all. Do share!”

“Aye!” said Osgar. “Let us into your mind, friend.”

The year long have I diligently held my tongue whilst working alongside these people, sharing in their lives. They were to kind to welcome me, a drifter, into their homes and give me purpose and companionship—things I do not deserve. To continue living as the wolf in sheep’s clothing serves only to further insult them without their knowledge.

A calloused, leather hand touched my knee. “We are all friends here, William,” said Ejnar. “Feel free to speak, lad.”

I drew in a breath, closed my eyes, and said, “It was I.”

I opened my eyes to see Osgar’s round nose wrinkled. “Come again?”

“It was I!” I shouted, finding myself on my feet.

The fire crackled in the heavy silence that followed.

“It was I who came those many years ago, leading a troupe of marauders in the name of Lord Trumane. We sacked your village. We murdered and raped and pillaged, and in the days to follow, they forgot all about you. We paid tribute with your stolen trinkets, consumed your stolen meat and bread and ale, and raided in like fashion another and still another village. We ravaged the countryside, a viscous band of killers. But I . . .”

Mouths were agape, those around the fire hanging on my every word.

“I did not forget,” I said. “I could not. I am haunted by my misdeeds. Those men who carried out my orders were callous brutes, most of whom by the grace of God soon met their own ends by as much violence as they themselves had unleashed. But it is I who truly am the monster among them, the man who gave their orders with pride and glee, and who partook myself in viciousness. It is I who have survived to know the torment caused by having wrought such horrors on this earth. For having taken from good and kind people that which they most loved and cherished.”

There was only silence. Elizabeth had ceased dinner preparations and now stared at me from the kitchen. Her face was not contorted in anger, her lips did not curl with vengeful bloodlust; she wore the same soft countenance of grace and care that I had come to know in her.

“Why did you come here, William?” she said.

“My name is not William,” I said, shaking my head. “I came because even a slow and painful death followed by eternity in hell is not punishment enough. I came to see your faces and to know your grief as it if were my own. A burdensome guilt is burning in me, like a hot iron from the forge, scalding my flesh from within. And now I ask you—nay, I beg you—let loose upon me your vengeful wrath, and rejoice in my death and damnation. I am the devil walking upon the earth, who took what precious little you had. Now please, make it right and slay me!”

Osgar stood. He set down his tankard, stark lucidity returning to him. He approached with slow steps. A mighty breath filling his lungs and then seeped from his nostrils like a gust of summer wind. “Aye,” he said, his voice quiet. “I remember you now. Do you also remember this man, Ejnar?”

“Aye,” said Ejnar, choking on a nervous swallow.

Osgar’s jaw quivered, face reddened, and the corners of his eyes grew wet like morning dewdrops on a rose pedal.

With arms outstretched, I surrendered to him my body and asked, “Will you, Osgar, brother of a wrongfully slain hero, complete my suffering and take your revenge?” I closed my eyes once more, ready for a the young man before me to swing the first blow of a fatal beating, or to draw a blade and open my flesh for all to see. I waited, feeling my limbs shake, my balance betraying me. My knees buckled, and asI felt myself heaving to the floor, a pair of familiar burly arms closed around my torso.

“Garett,” said Osgar, his head beside mind, the voice a whisper. “My brother was called Garett.”

When I opened my eyes, I was surprised to yet have my life. Osgar held me, his hands across my shoulders. It was an embrace of warmth, as if he now hugged the very dead brother of whom he spoke.

“Garett rushed into battle and met you,” Osgar continued, “a skilled swordsman, who bested him. I miss my brother with each passing day, but no death—neither yours nor that of a thousand of Trumane’s soldiers—can bring him back.” The stout young man unclasped his arms and stared into my eyes. “I forgive you, William,” he said. “And I shall not harm you.”

Having held my breath since the revelation of my secret, I gasped now for air. Osgar took up his tankard and returned to his seat by the fire. Ejnar’s attention was lost in the crackling flames, but I felt his leathery hand once more on my forearm. It was a powerful grip, though it contained no malice. He shook me with enthusiasm, as if greeting me anew. Elizabeth, arms crossed, head cocked in wonderment, huffed a breath, then nodded at my atonement. Alodie, sweet little Alodie, merely looked down at her potatoes. I watched her slowly reach for the next one, rubbing the dirt from its skin with her nimble fingers. Then came the sounds of her knife against the board as she resume chopping.

“Sit, William,” said Ejnar. “Sit down at our fire, won’t you?”

I sat, and Osgar extended to me a tankard of ale.

“To William,” the young man said, heaving his own ale into the air. “May God have mercy on him, and forgive him as we have done.” He smiled.

A quiet chorus of voices echoed, “To William.”