The Assassin and the Witch

Devlin Forest in Northumberland, late summer of 1484

It had taken the forest hours to calm its breath. When it finally did, the trees seemed to stretch their limbs towards the silence. The scent of pine sap rose, mixed with the sour rot of crushed bracken and whatever had died beneath it. Summer mist clung low, curling in the hollows between tree trunks, turning the moss silver where light still touched it.

Nothing moved. Not the ferns, not the man lying flat on his stomach beneath the roots of a half-hollowed ash. A black hooded cloak covered him, leather underneath, close-fitted and cut for silence. No crest marked him. No colours claimed him. Shadows kept his face, revealing only a jaw too weathered for youth and too hard for age. His weapons were bound in linen to silence any rustle. A narrow blade rested along his forearm, hidden in a crude spring-brace of metal and carved horn. Ornament was irrelevant. It only had to work.

The spot he had chosen was hemmed in close by pine trunks and tangled undergrowth.

A poor place to pass. A perfect place to kill.

Hoofbeats reached his ear like a dulled pulse long before the entourage appeared into sight. From the sound, he counted four horses. Tired, hooves muffled and uneven against the damp ground. They appeared as expected around the narrow bend. The first rider was bareheaded, with thinning silver-blond hair swept back from a high brow, and a face too proud to wear fear. He wore a surcoat in the old style, embroidered with the red rose of Lancaster encircled by a golden chain. The crest of House Vale, a lesser but vicious branch. He looked like a man thinking of food. Or sleep. Or nothing at all.

A lord, yes. And his target.

Behind him rode a young boy, squire-aged. He was pale-faced, shoulders squared in an effort to seem older. Compared to his master, the youngster’s hands held the reins too tightly. Then came two guards. The first one, thin, slouching, with armour gone dull beneath his cloak. The second was older, broader, muttering to himself as he rubbed his neck.

When the last man had passed the roots where he waited, the assassin moved. He rose quiet, gradual, no sharper than the shifting of a breeze. One gloved hand brushed earth, the other lifted a small throwing knife, balancing it in the crook of his fingers. He stepped from the mist without pause or tension, his cloak drawing no sound as he fell in stride behind the final rider. The knife struck behind the ear, angled forward and upward, driving clean through flesh and cartilage into the base of the skull. The man’s chest heaved, and his hands opened slackly. He dropped from the saddle and landed in a heap among the nettles, his mouth partway open. The horse continued walking. The assassin crossed behind. The second guard had straightened to the sound of movement, fumbling for his sword. The assassin came up at his side, hand seizing the man’s boot and belt, pulling. The air was slammed from his lungs as he landed beyond the path, but he made no sound. The hidden blade was jabbed into the soft area beneath his chin, making the man’s legs buck a few times before he finally stilled.

The squire’s horse slowed in premonition. He glanced back, scanning the path behind him. The assassin had already slipped from view, moving parallel through the underbrush, soft-footed as snowfall. He stepped forward and grabbed the boy from behind, placing one hand around the jaw, the other dragging him out of the saddle. He struggled, more out of fear than strength. The hidden dagger slid clean into the heart, beneath the sternum, stilling him mid-scream. The boy died folded into his arms, and he laid him gently beneath the bracken. He whispered a short prayer and closed the child’s eyes.

This one would haunt him. The young ones always did.

Only Lord Vale remained now. The old man had not looked back once. Not when the trail tapered, not when the horses behind him began to sound strange or stopped sounding at all. He sat loosely in the saddle, lost in his own thoughts. The assassin followed from a distance, letting the quiet thicken, choosing a spot where the trees leaned closer again. The horse faltered once, and he chose that moment to step back into the trail. The Lord straightened in confusion.

It was too late.

The assassin caught the surcoat, driving a long stiletto up and through the lung. Lord Vale choked and spat blood. There was no scream, only the soft rattle of a breath broken in the throat. The assassin held him a moment before he let him fall, kneeling beside his target. He turned the signet ring free from the swollen hand and wiped it clean on the crest adorning the man’s chest. The flies came almost immediately.

The forest would accept the bodies.