“Modesty, Tristan,” I say. “It’s what separates us from animals.”
The moon is bright but we ride slowly. I have a new respect for horses. They are the gold coins of this new country and I will not risk them needlessly. We ride west until I spot the carriage wheels. I stand in my saddle and check each of the Frenchmen. Most are dead. One wheezes and opens his eyes, giving me a start. I hold up my knife and speak to him.
“Miséricorde.”
His face crumples, but there are no tears left in him. He nods his head over and over again and I slit his throat.
“I’m sorry,” I say as his life dribbles out. “Mea maxima culpa.”
I look at the wound on my wrist and wonder if someone will have to give me the same mercy soon.
We turn southwest, toward Hedingham and the nunnery where we left Morgan of Hastings. Belisencia will be safe there, and I have recovered Saint Luke’s thigh from Alexander’s church, so the nuns will be happy.
Tristan turns to me when we are a safe distance from Edwardstone.
“So, riding a cow?” he asks.
“Leave it,” I say.
“Tell me about the pink reins. Were they a pale pink or more of a foxglove pink?”
“At the monastery in St. Edmund’s Bury,” I say, “how did you get out of the tunnel?”
“Raw meat,” he says. “Threw a dead goat down the pit, then ran.”
“How’d you get the goat past Brother Phillip?”
Tristan laughs. “I had to pry the monk off my leg. He told me I was eternally damned for starving a monk.”
We laugh. It feels good to laugh. But the wound on my wrist and the thought of Elizabeth quell the laughter swiftly.
Tristan rubs at his lower lip and becomes pensive. “I overestimated the plaguers’ interest in the dead goat, though. You remember that dead deer on the road to Hadleigh?”
I nod. We tied the dead deer to a rope and lured an army of plaguers to a battlefield five miles away. The same battlefield those Frenchmen on the wheel fled. But I was nearly torn apart when the plaguers spotted me as I attached the rope.
“Similar sort of thing,” he says. “Except there was no horse waiting to whisk me to safety.” His gaze grows distant and he does not say anything more.
It must have been bad.
“And you?’ he asks me finally. “It’s a surprise to see you out of the monastery.”
I think about my response for a time.
“Elizabeth…I was washing her arms. Found marks on them. Black bands near the wrists from the ribbons.”
We ride in silence until I can speak again.
“She slammed back against the wall once and it…it left a thick black mark on her shoulder.”
Tristan nods. “Is she safer now?”
“We padded the ribbons. And Sister Mildred helped me fix a mattress to the wall. But…” I shrug.
“We need to hurry,” Tristan says. “We’ll find the alchemist and he’ll have the cure. We should look for the simpleton that Isabella spoke of. The people of Chelmsford will know. I’m sure they’ll know of him.”
“Alchemy is a sin,” Belisencia says. “The Lord says, ‘Do not turn to alchemists; do not seek them out and so make yourselves unclean by them.’”
“Morgan said that to me once,” Tristan says. “Except it wasn’t alchemists; it was sorcerers and mediums.”
She dismisses him with a wave. “It applies to alchemy as well. Prayer is the only true cure for this plague.”
“I’ve seen a lot of prayer these days,” Tristan says. “And not one plaguer brought back because of it. If prayer is the cure, then we’re all doomed.”
“Perhaps that is as God wishes it,” Belisencia says. “Perhaps he is finally calling us all back to the Kingdom of Heaven. Although I don’t think I will see you there, Sir Tristan.”
“No,” he says. “I’ll spend eternity with the merry folk.”
“Merry? You mean the ones who defy God?”
“No,” he replies. “I mean the interesting ones. You zealots spend your entire lives simply waiting for the next. You pinch your noses and sit quietly, never looking to the sides, hoping you won’t make a mistake before God calls you back to the Kingdom of Heaven. What kind of existence is that?”
“A pious one,” she says. “A glorious one. You sinners spend your life chasing every pleasure. Lasciviousness, perpetual drink, lies, violence, vulgarity. You blunder from one mistake to the next, hurting all those around you, risking eternal damnation, never knowing discipline or faith. What kind of existence is that?”
“Sister,” Tristan says. “That sounds like heaven to me.”
“How odd,” she says, “that someone like you, who has no faith, wears a cross.”
Tristan touches the wooden cross at his chest. It is the one Morgan gave him before we left Hedingham. A peddler sold it to us, claiming it to be an artifact made from the wood of the True Cross upon which Jesus Christ was crucified. At first I scoffed at this claim, but I witnessed Morgan performing what I can only describe as miracles with it. Parting mobs of plaguers. Shattering a charge by mounted knights.
“It is also odd,” Tristan says, “that you who have faith wear none.”
Belisencia tries to retort but when her mouth opens she bursts into tears and covers her face. I own neither sword nor shield that can protect me from a woman’s tears. Tristan and I look to each other awkwardly and ride to either side of her.
“I…I am sorry,” I say, not certain what it is I am sorry about.
She buries her face in the blanket and cries for a time. I look at Tristan and he shrugs nervously. He pats her back with his gauntleted hand, then glances at me and shrugs again, motions to Belisencia.
I am more comfortable dealing with an army of plaguers than a sobbing woman.
“I am sorry,” I say again. Women like apologies. “I am so sorry.”
Tristan rolls his eyes at me. And I throw my hands up, then point to the nun. He started this. He can resolve it.
Tristan sighs and pats her on the back again. He clears his throat. “I’m…I’m sorry,” he says finally. I shake my head.
After a few more paces, she wipes her nose with the blanket and stares forward, the tears looking like dew on her eyes. “The nunnery was overrun,” she says. “Sister Agatha escaped with me. But she…she…” Belisencia bursts into tears again.
“I’m sorry.” Tristan and I say it at the same time and glare at one another.
“She changed into…into one of those…those…” She wipes at her nose. “She was the most devout of any woman I know. Why…why would God do such a thing to someone like her?”
“They are in a better place now,” Tristan says. “They are with God and all the pious, glorious people.”
Belisencia stares at Tristan quietly for a moment, then bursts into even greater sobs. “No,” she mumbles through the blanket. “No, many of the sisters escaped. But so many of them were bitten. What if they are possessed by demons? They will walk the lands, possessed for eternity! They can’t be saved! They will live in eternal torment!” She wails uncontrollably. I strike Tristan in the shoulder as hard as I can.
“Why?” she shrieks. “Why does God punish them?”
Neither Tristan nor I have an answer. Not even an apology seems right. Belisencia’s sobs quiet after a time and she rubs at her eyes with the heel of her hand. “I lost my rosary.” She sniffs. “I can’t even pray properly. What sort of nun has no rosary?”
“We will find you a rosary,” I say. A quest. Quests are good. I am good at quests. I will find this nun a rosary on our journey to the alchemist.
Tristan slips the wooden cross from his neck and places it over Belisencia’s head. “It’s not a rosary,” he says. “But they say it was made from the True Cross.”
Belisencia takes it in two fingers and studies it. She nods her head. I see the trembling in her lips before she bursts into tears again.
I think about apologizing again but restrai
n myself. Apologies will not help Belisencia. I speak the words to the Hail Mary instead.
“Ave Maria, gratia plena. Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Amen.”
“Amen,” Belisencia says. She stops crying.
“Hallelujah,” Tristan says.
We sleep that night inside an old windmill. Tristan and I are forced to use all the saddles and saddle blankets to make a bed suitable for Belisencia to sleep on. She does nothing but complain about the makeshift mattress while Tristan and I remove our armor, yet she is asleep before we are done.
I check my wound in the morning. There is more pus. Worse, I feel a pain in my throat and my body feels warm. I will have to tell Tristan soon. He needs to be prepared.
We set off again at dawn, toward Hedingham. The sun is hidden by the forests to the east, and that is the excuse I make when we reach the River Box; the river should be on our right but it is directly in front of us. I believe we have traveled more south than southwest.
We follow the Box westward until we come to a large stone mill with a squat bridge beside it.
“Where are we?” Belisencia asks.
“I don’t know,” I reply.
“We could ask him.” Belisencia points to a man standing in the break of a long, high set of hedges. He wears mail and a filthy white tabard with the red cross of Saint George upon it.
“We should ride away from here right now,” Tristan says.
I cannot agree with him more, but Belisencia trots toward the bridge.
“Good morning to you,” she shouts. Her horse clomps across the flat wooden bridge. “We are lost.”
The man turns his head and speaks to someone behind the hedges.
“Belisencia, come back at once!” I canter over the bridge, my horse’s hooves drumming on the wooden planks. Tristan follows.
“Might you tell us how we can reach Hedingham?” she calls.
The man walks toward us holding a short spear. “Are you plagued?” he calls.
I reach Belisencia and grab the reins of her horse. “Have you learned nothing about what this plague has wrought? You must assume everyone is an enemy.”
“That is not an England I wish to live in,” she says.
The soldier stops a few feet from us and stares warily. “Are you plagued?”
“No,” she says, smiling. “We are all three healthy.”
I hope that is true.
“You’re not here to see Hugh the Baptist?”
Tristan chuckles and goads his horse forward. “Hugh the Baptist?”
“He is our shepherd,” the soldier says softly. “He is the Light and the Word.”
“We just need to know how to get to Hedingham,” I say.
“You can cut through the Holy Lands,” The soldier says. “Hugh won’t mind.”
“Jerusalem seems a bit out of our way,” Tristan says.
“No, the new Holy Lands.” The soldier gestures beyond the endless stretches of hedges. “These are the very lands where the Lord showed himself unto Hugh.”
“I knew a man who used to stand behind hedges and show himself to girls,” Tristan says.
“All of these lands are sacred now,” the soldier says.
“We used to call him Cocky Tom,” Tristan says. “And not because he was confident, if you understand my intent.”
“Is there no end to the filth that pours from your mouth?” Belisencia asks.
“Filth pours from all of my other orifices, Sister. Why should my mouth be any different?”
We dismount and the soldier leads us through the break in the hedges. My ankle irritates me, but the pain is lessening. I give thanks to Saint John and his wort. But all thought of saints and ankles vanishes when I see what is in the fields of the Holy Land. I draw my sword before I can think. Tristan does the same.
“What in God’s name are those?” I shout.
But I know what they are.
Plaguers. Scores of them dressed in white and wearing crudely carved wooden masks.
Chapter 12
The plaguers are separated into groups. All of them seem to wear the strange masks: rounded pieces of wood with large eyeholes and either vertical slots or small round cutouts for breathing.
The ones nearest us seem to be ploughing a field. Ten or fifteen of them have been rigged to a plough with ropes and leader poles, with a healthy farmer walking behind them to square the plough. Two hulking mastie dogs, also hooked to the plough but with longer ropes, walk ahead of the plaguers. The hair on the dogs’ backs is matted with what looks like blood.
A woman without plague dressed in white stands at the edge of the field. As I watch, the dogs reach her and she feeds each of them something, drips blood onto their backs from a dead chicken, then motions to the opposite edge of the field.
Poor chicken. Not clever enough.
The woman backs well away from the edge of the field as the dogs loop around in the manner of a horse on a familiar track. They stay out of reach of the plaguers on their arc, then walk in a straight line toward the other end of the field. The plaguers follow behind, dragging the plough and reaching toward the dogs with clawed fingers. A man on the far end of the furlong, also dressed in white, waits for the dogs to arrive, presumably with another nugget of food for them and another not-clever chicken. Three more fields within the border of hedges are ploughed in the same manner.
“I don’t know if this is genius or madness,” I say.
“I find the best ideas often have a bit of both,” Tristan replies.
Belisencia crosses herself.
The soldier smiles. “They’ve been saved,” he says. “Every one of ’em. Doing the Lord’s work now, on the Lord’s Holy Lands.”
“Saved?” I ask.
“Aye,” he says. “I’ll be just like them one day too. But Hugh needs protection, so it’ll be some time yet.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “Are you saying you will be plagued? Like these people?”
His smile is wistful. “Aye. And so will you. Except you three are fortunate. You get to be saved today.”
“Like bloody hell we will,” Tristan says.
“We’ll take the long way to Hedingham,” I say.
But when we turn back to the opening in the hedge, there are eight men in mail blocking the way out.
I think of Belisencia’s comment about my lack of trust and sneer at her. “You may not have to live in this England much longer. I told you to stay away, didn’t I? I told you.”
“Why are you so angry?” the soldier says. “You are about to receive the everlasting glory of God. You will earn eternal salvation today.”
Tristan shakes his head. “Hallelujah.”
EPISODE 3
Chapter 13
We are prodded on spearpoint across fertile fields belonging to Hugh the Baptist. I do not know who this man is, but I am wary of anyone who would presume to take such a name. Perhaps I should accustom myself to such things: in these dark times, England is awash with new kings and self-anointed saints.
On either side of us, plaguers wearing wooden masks pull ploughs across what one of these soldiers calls the Holy Lands. I study these new sorts of oxen as we pass. The masks are all slightly different. Some have simple rectangles for the eyes. Some have large stars or half moons or crosses. I notice something else I missed when I first saw these plaguers: they have no hands.
“Must you lose your hands to be saved?” I ask.
“Not at all,” the soldier says. “But it helps.”
I spot an old ox mill operated by the afflicted. The plaguers lurch in circles after a bloody goat, their bodies harnessed to a shaft that rotates with them and transfers their energy to the millstone.
The soldiers lead our horses behind us as we climb a shallow slope. On the other side of the hill lies a small village—ten or twelve thatched homes arranged in a straight line. Opposite them, a few hundred paces away behind stone walls, sits a manor house with a tiled roo
f. The gates are open, and I see a fishpond at one side of the home. The manor is modest in size, but the owner is expanding.
A new wing, half-built, rises on the east end. Plaguers wearing the bizarre wooden masks and leather harnesses are tied together into groups of three and four. They strain and lurch, reaching for men who walk backward. The men hold clay pots in their hands and stir something inside with wooden spoons. As the plaguers stagger toward the men, they drag large blocks of sandstone roped to their harnesses.
“Hugh the Baptist has an army of slaves,” Tristan says.
“You say such things because you are ignorant of the truth,” the soldier replies.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Tristan says. “Those harnessed plaguers probably enjoy doing the work of draft animals.”
“You will be enlightened by Hugh the Baptist. He will free you from your darkness.”
“I’m sorry, but I find it difficult to be enlightened by someone named Hugh the Baptist,” Tristan says. “What sort of name is that? It’s not even biblical. He might as well be called Ralf the Baptist. Can you imagine if Jesus had been named Ralf? Ralf of Nazareth. Doesn’t really invoke the same sort of awe, does it? I don’t think Christianity would have had quite the—”
“Silence!” the soldier shouts.
“Do not make things worse with your blasphemy, Tristan,” Belisencia says.
“Worse?” Tristan scoffs. “They are going to plague me, cut off my hands, and harness me to a plough until my body falls apart. I’m interested in your definition of worse.”
“In hell,” Belisencia says, “your body will not fall apart. You will continue to plough for eternity. But the plough will be ten times as heavy. And the harness you wear will be made of fire.”
“I’m not sure you completely understand how harnesses and fire work, Sister,”
“I understand how the fire in that tent worked,” she says. “And you would have had an intimate understanding of it if I hadn’t scraped the burning canvas off you.”
“Did I ever thank you for that?” Tristan asks.
“Not once,” Belisencia replies.
“Good.”
We approach the gates and the first soldier points to an outbuilding of stone that lies to one side of the manor house. Flowers have been wreathed around the door and an intricate crucifix made from bits of curved wood hangs from the eaves. “That’s the sacred temple of Hugh the Baptist.”
Nostrum (The Scourge, Book 2) Page 7