Felix felt a weight in his chest, and his breathing slowed. Caesar watched him closely, trotting along at his side.


    “It’s not far,” said Ollie, sitting in front of Felix on the nape of the horse. He pointed with his small, dirty hand.


    There was a castle, indeed. Built atop a rocky spur, the castle jutted out, hanging on the cliff’s edge. The rest of its stonework descended back into the evergreen trees of the forest. It was a formidable castle, with high walls and parapets. But of the castles Felix had seen, it was quite diminutive in size.


    It was not the grand castle of royalty, but of the ministeriales—serfs given knighthood and fiefs of their own. Although not free men, they built the castles they could in service to their lords, and could not inherit or bestow the land to their kin. Many such castles were erected during the investiture controversy, a time when many knights were needed when kings and bishops were at war to decide who had the divine right to appoint clergy. Kings preferred relatives, a celibate archbishop was an excellent place for a king to cloister a close relative and claimant to the throne to ensure he had no progeny, while the Pope preferred loyalists to Rome.


    The matter was settled at the Concordat of Worms. The Church would choose, and the kings would have veto power. And the kings used it—often—as the first few nominations for powerful positions were always spies for the Church.


    As they rode up the rocky, uneven trail, scarred with the deep gashes of wagon wheel tracks, Felix was forced to slump forward against the boy to stay upright. Felix’s breathing again grew short. Blood dripped from his lip, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.


    “Are you alright?” asked Ollie.


    “Aye,” grumbled Felix, breathlessly. His wheezing worsened.


    As they came to the gatehouse, its battlements cracked and mottled with creeping moss, two men manning the wall signaled to open the gate. They were old, much too old to be worthwhile with a blade.


    Felix and the boy entered at a slow gate on the horse, the goat and pony just behind. As they reached the courtyard, patched with puddles and weeds, the men at arms approached. Felix’s eyes, having grown heavy, finally closed completely.


    Felix slipped from his saddle and fell to the dirt of the courtyard, splashing down in a puddle.


    The last words he heard were from Ollie. “Help him, help him please…”


    Felix’s world became darkness.


    Sticky, he thought.


    His mind awoke before his body. Trapped in a sightless, unmoving shell, Felix mustered all of his strength to open his eyes. He envisioned every saint, calling to them in his mind, some of them even by name. Saints be damned, he thought, there are too many to count. Then he recalled Saint Vitus, the saint of awakening—his emblem the rooster. Felix cried out to him.


    The saint did not answer, but someone did. A soft, feminine voice. “Wake up, sleeper…”


    His eyes did open, but he was certain that he was still dreaming. The woman before him was youthful, but not young, with a mane of brown curls and a sharp nose that upturned softly. Her eyes were hazel, yellow and green, and as she smiled they seemed to brighten.


    “Ollie was lucky you found him. And I think you were lucky you were found by Ollie. Another day, and you might be dead.”


    Felix’s head ached and he turned and inspected the room. His surroundings were unfamiliar. A simple bedroom, somewhere in the castle. Heraldry was hung from the walls. The sigil was of a raven in sable with wings displayed on a tawny shield. In its mouth it held an arrow.


    “Where am I?”


    “The west tower, and in my care.”


    Felix reached down to the wound. His fingers were met with a viscous, golden substance.


    The woman grabbed his wrist and returned his arm to his side.


    “It’s just honey. Be still.”


    “It smells strange.”


    “I have infused it with herbs—yarrow, lavender, and chrysanthemums. Its make I learned from my mother.”


    “A fine place for me to find myself, among a wi—“ Felix could not finish the sentence before Caesar let out a loud bleat.Stolen story; please report.


    “Christ in heaven, that thing’s here?”


    “He would not leave your side. You have a loyal animal in this one.”


    Felix began to laugh until the pain in his side forced him to stop. Haddie only smiled, and stroked the hair on Caesar’s head between the horns. It tilted its head sideways to allow her access to the back of its ears, and closed its eyes in preening pleasure.


    “What have you done to me?”


    “The cut was deep. I had to pack the wound in your lung to keep you from drowning from within. I’ve removed enough arrows to recognize bubbling blood. It is a common thing.”


    “And my horse?”


    “Safely in the stables.”


    Felix leaned his head back on the pillow and rested his arm on his brow. “I was reckless.”


    “Indeed,” she said. “Ollie said you were a holy man. What manner of holy work leads a man to get stabbed?”


    “I encountered some brigands.”


    The woman looked to the armor and sword leaned against the bed. “I’m sure they ended up with more holes than you did.”


    “Aye,” replied Felix.


    The woman scoffed. “Tell me truth. Where did you come from?”


    “I came from Rome. I am on a holy mission.”


    “All men believe their missions are holy. Tell me, what do you seek—really?”


    “Absolution…”


    “Then you have come to the wrong place. There are only condemned men here.”


    “What is this place?”


    “Schloss Reichter, a castle that exists only to be a castle. To claim dominion over a land that no one cares about, and people no one remembers.”


    “Then why are you here?”


    “Nowhere else would have me.” The woman looked away.


    “I understand… I will make my time here brief,” said Felix.


    “Well, now you are in my care, and I will decide that. But I cannot attend to you much longer. Our lord needs my services, he is also unwell.”


    “The possession…” Felix whispered under his breath, remembering why he had come. “Ollie said he was under a demonic spell. What say you?”


    “Our lord Siegfried has a touch of madness. Although, many prefer him in this state.”


    “Why do you say so?”


    “His affliction keeps him in his chambers, away from the greedy lords and desperate inheritors who seek to claim this castle upon his death. There are many who believe they own this land, but it should belong to its people. He is best left alone.”


    “If it’s all the same, I’d like to see him.”


    “I do not recommend it. He is in good hands.”


    “You are his healer?”


    The woman glanced down, playing with the ruffles of her simple work gown, a forest green bodice embroidered with white flowers. The scoop neckline revealed much of her chest, which was lightly freckled. “I am a dairymaid, in truth.”


    Felix roared with laughter, allowing the pain to rush through him, this time unabated. “You are telling me that a milkmaid performed surgery on me while unconscious?”


    The woman shot back in offense. “I am no milkmaid! Those are women in the fields among the cows. I work with milk and fat in the scullery to make butter, cream, and lotions. My cheese is the best for forty miles. I use crabapples in place of vinegar for the acidity. I also make tonics, and in your case, healing honey.”


    Felix recognized that what she said was true. Her hands were soft. Impossibly so—for a servant. A milky, silk texture he half remembered from her gentle care while he was asleep. He wanted to beg her to touch him again. But that thought was sinful, and he pushed it from his mind—although it did not want to leave.


    “I apologize.” He smiled as warmly as he could. “My name is Felix.”


    “I am Haddie.”


    “I thank you, Haddie. For saving my life.”


    “It is my duty. And what service are you in? Priest, knight, soldier?”


    “I am a witch hunter.”


    Haddie abruptly rose from the bedside. A look of concern washed over her. “Not a man of God’s love, but of God’s hate. I must go, there are other matters that need my attention.”


    “I did not mean to offend. It is my duty.”


    “To hurt people? To persecute and condemn? Does God demand it?”


    “God only demands we live as good Christians.”


    “This Christianity of yours, it is for men, not us. For the pagans—the Romans, the Greeks, and the old Germans, god had a wife. You replaced him, but stripped us of her. Who are women to pray to when men extract synch atrocities upon us in his name?”


    Felix was caught off guard. Her words wounded him, as they were truth. This woman was more than she seemed. So much more.


    “Who’s room is this?,” Felix said, trying to change the subject to keep her around for a moment more, “am I imposing?”


    “Oh, no,” said Haddie. “The west tower is haunted. No one dares set foot in here.”


    Haddie turned to a tray on the table, and after shuffling plates and jars around, she turned back to Felix.


    “Here, if you be hungry.”


    Felix eyed the plate. It was fresh bread, a sourdough with large airy pockets and a flaky brown crust, smeared with a familiar shining gold substance. “More honey?”


    “It is a specialty here. Now I must be on my way.”


    Felix took a large bite, and with his mouth full, he said, “I don’t believe in ghosts.”


    Haddie paused at the doorway and looked back. A dark smile crossed her lips—her beauty and joy replaced with an impish delight.


    “You will, witch hunter. Now rest, your friends sent word that they will be arriving soon.”


    His mouth full, Felix spit crumbs as he spoke, “What friends?”


    “Ollie sent work to the Church for help with our lord. A man named Lorenzo and his men will be here by morning.”


    Felix’s eyes widened and he nearly choked.