“Yeah,” Henric says. “He was riding a cow with pink reins.” The two men laugh. “Had an unhealthy affection for that cow, he did.” They chuckle again and sit me against the tentpole between the man and the woman. They run a rope around my tied wrists and bind me to the pole.
“I am a knight of Sussex,” I say. “I hold the favor of the Earl of Arundel and King Richard himself.”
The two men laugh again.
“You can tell that to Alexander.” Henric bids farewell to the guard and slips out of the tent.
I seethe in silence for a span, imagining the things I will do to Henric and Stephan. And Alexander. And the archers who killed Abigail. And this woolly guard in the chair. And those men by the campfire. All of them. Every one. I will bring Amalek upon this encampment when I am free. Not even the donkeys will be spared.
“It is no use talking to them,” the nun says. “They have gone outlaw.”
“There must be laws for outlaws to exist,” I say. “Men like these have been reduced to savagery in this new world. And we may be their prisoners for a long time. God has blessed us with a trial, Sister.”
The man in the hood cocks his head toward me. “Hallelujah.”
I stare at him for the long time. My heart pounds with the truth but my mind cannot accept it. “Tristan?”
The man nods his head. “Hello, Edward.”
A thousand questions spring to mind, but only one makes it out of my mouth. “Why do you have a sack over your head?”
“The question you should be asking,” he says, “is, why aren’t you wearing a sack over your head? It is the height of fashion on the Continent these days. A bit restrictive when it comes to range of view, but really, what is sight in the face of fashion?”
I feel a smile creep over my face. “Tristan!”
“I hope you didn’t bugger that cow, Edward,” he adds. “I understand God frowns on that sort of thing.”
I laugh. It is the first time I have laughed in days. I have found my brother-in-arms. My most loyal knight. My worst influence. And my best friend.
I have found Tristan of Rye.
EPISODE 2
Chapter 7
“Tell me about this cow,” Tristan says. “Supple skin? Firm udders? Was she worth it, Edward? And, out of curiosity, where is she now?”
The nun beside me hisses a breath. “Must everything you say be so vulgar?” she asks. “In these vulgar times, Sister,” Tristan says, “only vulgarity will save us. Enjoy some humor while you can. Death’s sweet release may soon be upon us.”
“If this is what passes for humor,” the nun says, “then death will indeed be a sweet release. Vulgarity is not wit.”
“Vulgarity is the height of wit, Sister,” Tristan says. “God loves a good impudence here and there.”
“If vulgarity is wit, then you are a saint.”
It takes a moment for all the possible meanings to sink in. Tristan barks a laugh and then a peculiar thing happens. He cannot find a retort. He stammers, then falls silent. I look skyward, expecting the Angel Gabriel to blow his horn.
When I am certain the seas are not turning to blood and that the earth is not shaking, I speak. “It is good to see you, Tristan. I thought you would be in Chelmsford.” I am careful to keep the emotion from my voice. It is a mistake to show the enemy what you value.
“I was heading to Chelmsford,” he says. “But I heard about this fine establishment. Pastoral. Romantic lighting. Clever women. The staff could use a good scrubbing, but at these prices, how can I complain?”
“I hope you didn’t pay in advance,” I say. “We won’t be here long.”
“I told you to keep your mouth shut, didn’t I?” The guard stands and pulls the burlap hood from Tristan.
“No,” Tristan says. “You told me to hold my tongue. Which I am incapable of doing when my hands are bound. A rather peculiar thing to ask, really.”
The guard draws a swath of linen from a pouch and tears a long strip from it, then ties a knot in the center.
“What’s your name?” Tristan asks. “I’m going to speak to the owner about your rudeness. And where’s my wine? I asked for it more than two hours ago.”
The soldier gestures to Tristan and turns to me with a pleading look in his eyes. “Does he ever stop talking?”
“He sleeps sometimes,” I say.
The guard puts the knot between Tristan’s teeth. It is good Flemish cloth. I hope King Edward didn’t wipe his arse with it.
“Pull it tightly, please,” the nun says.
A man wearing a rich, knee-length tunic enters the tent. The guard pulls the linen away from Tristan’s mouth and hides it behind his back. “Afternoon, Gilbert,” he says.
Gilbert has long mustaches and closely cropped hair. He studies me with his head tilted upward slightly, a gesture that no man I admire has ever used.
“Another knight?” he says.
“Not a chance,” Tristan says. “I’m leaving today. The staff is awful. And this room is not at all adequate—I specifically requested a view of the river.”
The man studies Tristan, then clears his throat. He lifts a small rack that holds a dozen ceramic phials. “We found these among your things. Would you care to tell me what they are?”
“They contain a cure for the plague,” Tristan says. “Please don’t drink them.”
The nun gasps. “A cure?”
“He jests,” I say. “They are full of poison.”
Gilbert studies Tristan, then me. He runs his finger along the hilt of an oversized knife at his hip. “If they are poison, then perhaps the two of you should drink them.”
“I’ve had some,” Tristan says. “But you can’t ever be too safe. Bring it here.”
“Tristan, stop it.” I say. “He’s not being serious. The liquid in those phials causes plague.”
Gilbert sighs monumentally. “Shall we not play at games? I have been a scholar my entire life. I studied at Cambridge, gentlemen. I can see through your lies. I can see into your hearts.”
“Then you have poor vision,” I say. “If you drink those, you will contract the plague.”
“What is your name?” Gilbert asks.
“I am Edward of Bodiam. And I am a knight of Sussex. Who are you that would hold me here against my will?”
“Sir Edward,” Gilbert says. “Do you know that lying is not a natural instinct? When someone asks us a question, our first instinct is to tell the truth. Your friend answered my question very quickly. Too quickly to have lied. After he spoke, you realized that he had blundered. You took more time and came up with your response.” He points a finger at me. “A lie.”
I sigh, and Gilbert mistakes it for confirmation. He smiles and paces with his hands clasped before him. “You then further weakened your credibility by changing your lie. First you said the phials contain poison, then you said their contents cause plague. Do you see how you have defeated yourself?”
“You are an idiot,” I say. “Believe what you wish.”
“I don’t have to believe. I know the wonders of reason.”
Reason. I have heard many men speak of it. It is a fashionable topic these days. Lords fill their manors with men from the Continent, from Italy, and from the Arab lands so that they may learn about reason.
I have not had a great deal of teaching on this Greek philosophy. I know that the old monk Bede—a scholar whose writings have survived for nearly a thousand years—was versed in the teachings of the Greeks. He used their reason to conjecture that the world we live and walk upon is not flat but spherical. I would not believe such nonsense, but the Church denied it with such fervor that I know it must be true.
Reason, when used to delve into universal truths, is an indispensable tool. A torch to light the shadowy corners of the world. But these days, when men speak of reason, it is as a molten forge to twist and shape the world for their pleasure. And so I do not place a great deal of faith in reason.
“Here is a sample of reasoning, Edward
,” Gilbert says. “Phials contain medicine. You are carrying phials. Therefore, you are carrying medicine. Do you see the simplicity of it?”
“That is simple,” Tristan says.
“Here’s another,” Gilbert says. “Humans avoid danger. The plague is dangerous. Therefore you would not carry the plague near you. Breathtaking, isn’t it?”
“Breathtaking,” I say. “Precisely the word I would have used.”
“Why would your friend carry phials of plague with him? It is not reasonable. It makes no sense.”
“Tristan never makes sense,” I say.
“I don’t,” Tristan agrees. “But it adds to my charm.”
“You must possess charm to add to it,” the nun says.
Gilbert waves one hand to silence them. “Reason is an arrow,” he says. “And it always strikes right where it means to. In the middle part of the target, Sir Edward. In the center of the target wreath, where only the best archers strike. And the center of that wreath, where the arrow strikes, that is what we like to call the truth.”
“Such eloquence,” Tristan says. “I never stood a chance against you, did I?”
“I have studied the works of all the masters,” Gilbert says.
“Please, Gilbert,” Tristan says. “Use the cure for good. That is all I ask.”
Gilbert nods reassuringly. “Now, tell me, Sir Tristan, how do the phials work?”
“One drop will cure the afflicted. And one drop will protect the unafflicted for two weeks.” Tristan shakes his head. “Damn you and your reason, Gilbert.”
Gilbert stares at the phials and smiles broadly. “Alexander will be pleased when I show him what these phials do. Perhaps he will give me my own horse.”
“He may give you more than that,” I say.
Gilbert shrugs. “I will satisfy myself with a horse.”
“I wouldn’t.” Tristan shakes his head. “God frowns on that sort of thing.”
Chapter 8
We hear the first scream well after sunset.
There is a certain scream that only plaguers can elicit. A cry of unholy terror. After twenty years of war I thought I had heard every type of scream a man can make. But there is something biblical about a man’s cry when he is surprised by a plaguer. Something that taps into the fear of eternal torment. When a man shouts in battle, it is from the lungs and from the throat. But when a man sees a plaguer, the scream comes from his very soul.
The guard wakes and peers out of the tent.
“What in Christ’s name…” He squints, then dashes outside.
“Well, that’s sorted then,” Tristan says.
“What, exactly, is sorted?” I ask.
Tristan gestures vaguely with his chin. “That. Out there. Sorted.”
“Tristan, nothing is sorted.”
Tristan cocks an eyebrow, takes on Gilbert’s tone. “You obviously have not studied reason, Sir Edward. All of our enemies will either be dead or plagued. If you had been to Cambridge, you would realize that we can now escape from our bonds and leave at our leisure. Here, let me put it in the simple terms of reason: only bandits can hold us captive. Plaguers are not bandits. Therefore we are not captives anymore. Breathtaking, isn’t it?”
“No, I did not study at Cambridge, Tristan. But let me make an attempt at reason: plaguers eat those who are not afflicted. We are not afflicted. Therefore—”
“The goal then is to not be here when the plaguers arrive,” Tristan says. “See the simplicity?”
I sigh. “Can we try to get these ropes untied?”
Another scream rings out somewhere in the churchyard.
“Please tell me that you fools did not infect this entire camp,” the nun says.
Tristan listens to the cries and winces. “Humans can run very quickly. We are human. Therefore…” He shrugs.
“Tristan.” I feel the heat of frustration rising in me. Elizabeth tells me I need to breathe deeply when this happens, so I do. I breathe deeply three times and smile. “Humans cannot run when they are tied to tentpoles.” I grit my teeth through the rest. “We are tied to thick tentpoles. Therefore…” I trail off, as Tristan did.
A man shrieks just outside, right next to us. Something falls against the tent behind Tristan. The tent shudders. More screams, including one from the nun. The light from the candles is just bright enough for me to see a dark stain spreading across the canvas.
“Knights are fools!” the nun says, and there is a touch of hysteria to her voice. “The two of you are knights!” She doesn’t finish. She drops her chin to her chest and sobs. “We’re going to die here because of your stupidity!”
“Edward and I may hold your life in our hands,” Tristan says. “You might consider being a little nicer to us.”
I dig my feet into the earth and shove with my legs. The tentpole shifts slightly, but not as much as I had hoped. They must have buried the oak shaft deep into the earth.
“Tristan, push against the pole with your back. Hard.”
The pole shifts a little toward me. I shove back. The pole tilts toward him, and he shoves again. We slip into a rhythm. Forward and back, forward and back. The entire tent rocks with us. Just a few inches at a time. Back and forth.
Tristan spouts poetry to the rhythm of our rocking.
“Here’s a riddle to leave you appalled…”
The cries echo all across the churchyard. A wild-eyed man with blood smeared across his cheek looks into the tent, then disappears again.
“I’m hairy beneath…” Tristan continues.
The pole shudders.
“…above I am bald…”
The canopy rattles over our heads as guy lines snap.
“I’m purple and red…”
A man enters the tent, almost falling as he does. It is Gilbert. Or was Gilbert. There is no reason left in the man that stares at us now. He stares at us with a vacant look of surprise.
“…and stand up in the bed. What am I called?” Tristan sees Gilbert and smiles. “Shall I repeat the riddle for you, Gilbert? A Cambridge man should have no trouble…” He trails off. “Oh.”
A line of bloody spittle dribbles from Gilbert’s mouth. He staggers toward us, moaning. The nun shrieks and thrashes against the pole. Gilbert reaches a hand out toward her. She shrieks again.
“Keep rocking, Tristan!” I lean toward the nun and pound Gilbert in the face with my foot. He howls and falls back, then turns back to me with a snarl. My boot has gashed the skin of his forehead. The pole tilts toward me, shoving me forward so that I have to curl in on myself. I shove back with all my strength. Gilbert lunges toward me and I use both feet to keep him at bay. He bites at the toe of one of my boots, so I use the other to knock teeth from his mouth. The pole tilts back toward me. The nun will not stop shrieking. I set one foot down and shove back against the pole. The tent tilts in Tristan’s direction. Gilbert grabs at my leg. I lean to one side, gather all my strength, and swing my free leg in an arching kick that catches Gilbert in the temple and sends him tumbling to the ground.
Tristan groans and shoves at the pole. More guy lines creak and snap outside. The canvas loses its tautness. Folds of the tent sag toward us. The thick oaken pole pushes against my back, bending me almost double. Gilbert staggers to his feet. Tristan groans again and something at the base of the pole cracks. The full weight of the tent shaft falls upon me. I rotate my shoulders so that the pole is free to fall onto the ground. The candles flutter madly in the far corner.
Candles.
The broken tentpole creaks and falls slowly. The canvas drifts downward, fluttering the candles on the other side of the room. I have time for one more calculation of reason before the darkness descends.
Canvas burns. Tents are made of canvas…
Chapter 9
Gilbert growls in the darkness with what might be frustration. I empathize with him. The thick folds of canvas lie upon us and I can see nothing. I lie on my side, my hands still bound to the fallen tentpole. The nun has stopped screaming,
but I can hear her weeping quietly and muttering prayers beside me. Tristan is silent, but I can feel his hands pulling against his ropes. My wrists are bound below his and just above the nun’s. I feel her hands moving too.
“Sister,” I say. “Can you slide your hands off the edge of the pole?”
“I am trying,” she shouts. “They are tied tightly.”
“Try harder,” Tristan says.
“My wrists are at the bottom of this pole,” she says, her fear momentarily forgotten. “You should be a little nicer to the woman who holds your life in her hands.”
The canvas ripples toward me. Gilbert.
“Fair maiden,” I say, trying to keep the panic from my voice. “Wouldst thou be a dear and please slide your fucking wrists off the miserable fucking post that we are attached to before Gilbert the demon uses his pox-addled reason to find me and eat my bloody brains!” I might have failed to keep the panic from my voice. I take three deep breaths and smile. “If you would, my lady.”
“I cannot!” the nun shouts. “The ropes are too tight!”
“Rock back and forth,” I say. “Use your weight to loosen the ropes.”
The nun rocks back and forth. Tristan and I rock too. The canvas rises and falls as we rock. I hear a wooshing sound at the far end of the tent and notice a faint glow through the tent cloth…
…therefore this tent will burn.
We rock harder and the glow brightens.
“Is it…is it getting warmer?” Tristan asks.
I smell smoke.
“I am free!” the nun shouts. She stands, and the fabric rises in a peak around her. The far side of the tent is blazing.
“Run!” Tristan says. “Flee!”
The nun flees.
I watch her tunnel through the canvas, stooping and prodding it upward with her hands until she is gone.
“Tristan, can you slide your hands free?”
“There’s a nail beneath my ropes,” he calls. “I’m caught.”
A hand slips toward me from beneath the canvas. It lifts the fabric, and Gilbert’s ebony eyes stare into mine. I scream. It is a girlish scream, I will admit it. But Gilbert’s sudden appearance startled me beyond words. I pivot on my hip to kick him again and the pole moves with me. Gilbert’s nose shatters. I have an idea.
Nostrum (The Scourge, Book 2) Page 5