Matheus smiles, but it is a sad smile. “Do you want to know what God said to Hugh the Baptist?” He pauses dramatically. A scream shreds the pause as another pilgrim meets Hugh. “He said that we are already dead. All of us. That we are in purgatory, unable to find our way to heaven.”
Not even Tristan responds to this.
Matheus points to the tapestry. “This was woven more than a hundred years ago. It was made at the request of Joseph the Devout, who in his lifetime had more than two hundred holy visions. Even Pope Nicholas III consulted with Joseph.” He touches the weaving with his fingers. “And this, this is Joseph’s vision of purgatory.”
Belisencia kneels and crosses herself. “Oh Holy Father,” she says, tears welling. “Oh Jesus, our Lord and Savior.”
Tristan studies the tapestry, one hand on his chin. “The people’s heads are too large,” he says. “I’m not impressed with the artistry.” He pauses. “Or does that come later? Will our heads swell?” He makes a show of touching his head at various spots. “Edward, does my head look bigger to you?”
“Shut your mouth, Tristan,” I say. He believes in nothing, Tristan. As I stand and stare at this tapestry, I wish I, too, could believe in nothing. But the sight of this artwork sends chills crawling like demon fingers along the skin of my back. I am so hot and unsteady that I feel like shedding my armor. If I am in purgatory, then where is Elizabeth?
Tristan points to a soldier with a bulbous forehead. “Dear God!” he shouts. “It’s started! That poor man!”
Matheus stares at Tristan with a look of infinite patience, then speaks.
“You wanted to see hell, Tristan?” He points toward Boxford and the smoke columns in the distance. “That is hell. Hell surrounds us. There is no plague. There are only the saved and the unsaved. Those whom you call ‘afflicted’ have ascended to the Kingdom of Heaven. And the rest? They are lost in the darkness. You are up to your necks in hell, my friends, and the fiery waters continue to rise. There is only one way out. You must take it before your souls drown and the devil claims you for eternity.”
“In these times of madness,” Tristan says, smirking, “only the plague will save us. So why have you not been saved, Matheus?”
“I will be, Sir Tristan,” he replies. “I cannot wait for the day. But God and Hugh need a king here to help guide the lost back to their home.”
Belisencia’s fingers coil in her hair. Her green eyes are wide and shine with tears. “We…we are dead?”
“Yes, Sister,” Matheus says. “And God waits for you.”
“But…if the afflicted have gone to heaven, why do they still walk?” she asks. “Why do they not die?”
“Because this is hell, Sister. And when the spirit departs the body in hell, demons take its place. The bodies lurch and stagger because demons fight amongst themselves for control. Like snails fighting for a shell.”
Belisencia’s hair flutters in the wind. I stare out into the village. Is Elizabeth in heaven? Am I searching for something that she does not need? Am I searching hell without purpose? If I must afflict myself to reunite with my angel, then I will let the demons tears my body apart. And I will smile as they do it.
But what if he is wrong?
“I always…” Tristan scratches at his neck. “I always imagined hell with a bit more…well…fire. What was all that bollocks about fiery lakes and brimstone?”
“The fire is inside us, Sir Tristan. We burn with fear and shame. Do you not feel a smoldering within you?”
“Yes,” Tristan says. “I thought it was the dried venison from the bandit camp.”
“Listen to him!” Belisencia weeps and falls to her knees. Her hands claw at Tristan. “Look at the tapestry! Look out there!”
“You try to deflect the truth with your humor, Sir Tristan,” Matheus says. “Do not harden your heart. Who do you know that has been afflicted? Are they not the devout? The innocent? The meek? The best of us?”
This last remark brings sweat to my brow. Elizabeth. Morgan. Matilda. I think of the priests and bishops. Of the monks and the holy devout. These are the people this plague has taken. Dear Lord, could Matheus be right? Is my Elizabeth waiting for me? I stare up into the sky, as if I might see her beckoning.
“You are right, Matheus,” Belisencia says. “It is the most devout who are taken. I have sinned, so I remain here in purgatory. I have sinned.” Belisencia tightens her lips and stops talking. I see the struggle on her face.
Matheus strokes her chin.
“Must you touch her so much?” Tristan asks.
“We are all sinners, Sister,” Matheus says. “It was only by Christ’s sacrifice that our sins were forgiven. We must make our own sacrifice. We must show God that we have faith. This plague is a test, my child. A trial of faith for those whom Saint Michael found unworthy of either heaven or hell.”
“Hallelujah,” Tristan says.
“God is merciful.” Matheus keeps his eyes on Belisencia. “He has given us another chance. We must repent of our sins and show Him that we trust Him completely. Only then will He raise us to heaven.”
I am uncertain what to think. This plague has seemed like a nightmare. Something unreal. A feverish hallucination. Are we dead already? Is this purgatory? I stare out at Boxford and watch a group of plaguers fighting over something that was once alive. Does hell truly rise around us? It is not a difficult thing to believe.
“You said earlier that you would burn us as heathens if we rejected the word of God,” Tristan says. “Seems a bit excessive to kill us when we are already dead, doesn’t it?”
Matheus nods. “A clever insight, Sir Tristan.” He looks out toward the village again. “If we burn your bodies in purgatory, your soul will remain in purgatory until it is swallowed by hell. If you reject the word of God, then you sentence yourselves to eternal torment. It is not something I wish to do, but Hugh has decreed it should be so.”
“Where is this Hugh?” Tristan asks. “I have a suggestion concerning his name.”
“I will take you to see Hugh now,” Matheus says. “He will free you from the darkness.”
“We don’t wish to see Hugh,” I say. “We don’t believe you.” Although, in all honesty, I am not sure if that is true. If what he says is correct, it would answer many questions. But then it is the job of religion to find answers. Tristan once said that religion was created because humans cannot bear an unanswered question, that superstition grows in the unknown like mold in the dark. “We will not let you afflict us.”
Matheus looks at each of us and sighs. “None of you wishes salvation? None of you seeks the Kingdom of Heaven?”
Tristan shrugs. “Not if it’s full of monks and priests.”
Belisencia says something quietly, but I cannot make it out clearly.
“You can’t manipulate us into doing your bidding,” I say.
Belisencia clears her throat and speaks more clearly. “I will do it.”
Tristan and I stare at her, then at one another.
“Take me to Hugh the Baptist,” Belisencia says. “I wish to leave purgatory.”
Chapter 16
“Are you mad, woman?” Tristan points to the plaguers in the distant village. “You will become like them. A drooling fool.” He considers this, then adds, “More than you already are, at any rate.”
“I forgot,” she replies, her words hard and biting. “Tristan of Rye is always right. He knows the truth when so many others do not.”
“That’s not entirely correct,” Tristan replies. “I was wrong once, about six years ago. Do you remember that, Edward? In Rouen? That was a long night.”
“Belisencia,” I say. “Whether he is right or not, you should not leap into this without thinking it through.”
“We have leaped already,” she says. “We leaped into purgatory. Look around, Edward. The dead walk. Madness spreads like fire upon dry reeds. Look at the tapestry. Fire. Hunger. Fear. Sorrow. Matheus is right. Hugh the Baptist is right. Their words are the only things
that make sense.”
Tristan takes her arm gently. “Belisencia…”
“No, Tristan,” she says. “I told Edward that I do not want to live in a world where I cannot trust anyone. And I truly do not want to live here. We cannot trust, because no one is trustworthy in purgatory.”
She shakes Tristan off and nods toward Matheus. He smiles and leads us back down the spiral stairs of the Norman tower. “Perhaps when you witness Belisencia’s ascension, the two of you will change your minds,” he says.
“Belisencia’s ascension,” Tristan says. “Sounds like one of those bawdy stories the minstrels tell when everyone is in their cups.” He is joking but I hear the anger in his voice.
We leave the church and are guided back to the manor house. Four of the white-robed pilgrims sit carving their masks now. As I watch, the nine-year-old girl joins them. She sniffles and touches the wound on her shoulder, cries when her fingers brush the bloody, broken skin. I look at the afflicted girl and feel despair so deep that it makes me weary. I feel like sleeping. Like lying down and never rising again. But Elizabeth needs me. The slow kindle of fury burns away the weariness. A molten forge of injustice. I want to direct the anger at Matheus, but I am not yet convinced he is wrong. Has he killed the girl or given her eternal joy?
Belisencia takes Matheus’s arm and walks toward the font. The soldiers shove us back with their spear shafts to keep us from following.
“Belisencia!” Tristan shouts. “Don’t!”
Matheus speaks the same words that the bald priest spoke for the others, then tips the ladle onto Belisencia’s head. The blood washes down her face, follows the long strands of dark hair to her shoulders and along her back. She flinches at the touch of blood on her skin. There is a suggestion of a smile on her face, but her gaze darts to the outbuilding and her fingers worry the sleeves of her robe.
“You won’t go to heaven!” Tristan says. “He just needs more oxen!”
Matheus guides Belisencia toward the temple of Hugh the Baptist. Tristan’s shoulders relax. He sighs deeply. Then he springs forward, surprising the guards. He manages five steps before they knock him down. I do not know what he would have done with his hands bound as they are.
“Belisencia! You will die!” he shouts. He strains against the soldiers, but there are too many holding him down. “You will die! Don’t do it! Don’t do it!”
I do not know if Belisencia is right in doing what she does, but Robert Knolles, my commander in France, once told me never to buy anything in a market until you have spoken to other merchants.
“I want to see it,” I shout.
Matheus pauses and glances my way. “Pardon?”
“You said you would take us to Hugh the Baptist. I want to see him. I want to watch as she is saved. Perhaps it will sway me.”
Matheus stares at me silently for a time. He glances toward the bald priest, who shrugs.
“You may watch,” Matheus says. “Cut him loose.” He raises a forefinger. “But you will have a knife at your throat. If you try to stop Hugh the Baptist, your life will spill out in the temple, and Satan will claim your soul.”
I nod. The mercenary with the swollen cheek draws a seax from his belt, the metal blade ringing as it leaves the sheath. He cuts the ropes binding my hands and crowds next to me, brandishing the knife, grinning malevolently. Italian, I decide. Probably Genoese.
And together the four of us—Matheus, Belisencia, the mercenary, and I—go to see Hugh the Baptist.
The door creaks open. A small window high on one wall lets in a shaft of light. Dust motes rise and swirl in the sunbeam. The chamber is smaller than it looked from outside. No more than four paces in any direction. A thick candle burns on a shelf that runs the length of one wall. I expected to see plaguers, in a cage perhaps. But all I see is a man sitting in a chair. Presumably Hugh the Baptist. He wears a bishop’s hat and robes, but I cannot make out any more details in the gloom. There is a small door behind Hugh, and I imagine that is where the plaguer, or plaguers, are kept.
The Italian mercenary closes the front door, then steps behind me and I feel the steel edge of the seax against my neck. “Perhaps I slit you even if you no make trouble.” His whisper is fierce, his accent thick. “When he turns he back, I can say you try to fight me, no?”
Matheus turns his back. I stand perfectly still.
Belisencia crosses herself and mumbles a prayer as Matheus picks up the candle and places it on a trestle table beside the sitting man. The candlelight reveals Hugh the Baptist, and the sight of him shocks me. So much so that I jerk backward and crash against the mercenary. Belisencia lets out a short cry when she sees him. The Italian shouts in his language, spittle from his lips spattering my neck. He grasps a shock of my hair and pulls my head backward with one hand as the knife returns to my throat.
I stare at the man sitting in the chair.
Hugh the Baptist is a plaguer.
The man’s skin is pale and wrinkled and sagging. Blood stains his mouth and neck. He lost his nose at some point: a red splotch and shards of cartilage mar his features where it once sat. He looks like a drooping, black-eyed skull in a bishop’s hat. A rope around his waist binds him to the chair.
“After Hugh heard the word of God, he was called to the Kingdom of Heaven,” Matheus explains. “But the Lord sent him back to us. The Lord sent him back to spread the word. To offer a chance at salvation, even now, even to those who were found unworthy. Hugh shares his body with demons now, but he continues to do the work of the Lord.”
Hugh opens his mouth and makes a creaking sound that rises in volume until it is a shriek. Belisencia takes a step away from him and steadies herself on the shelf from which Matheus took the candle. Hugh’s scream ends abruptly. He sniffs at Belisencia, although without a nose I am not sure what he smells. He opens his mouth cavernously, wider than any human mouth ought to open, and hisses. Then Hugh the Baptist shocks me once more.
He speaks. A tumbling susurration of words, like many voices whispering, with no breaks. “Whodoesnotbelievewillbecondemned.”
I have taken part in sieges on two cities and five castles. And on several of these sieges, we employed sappers to tunnel beneath walls or towers. Sappers set roaring fires beneath fortifications. They use dead pigs and timber to create flames so potent that the heat collapses the structure above. I have always been on the side that employs the sappers, so I do not know how defenders must feel when their most reliable fortifications crumble without warning. But after hearing a plaguer speak, I can imagine. Walls and towers within my mind crumble in the face of this incomprehensible demonstration.
A plaguer has spoken. I have no defense for this.
And neither, it seems, does Belisencia. She swoons and Matheus catches her. He brushes back her hair and blows softly across her forehead. His movements have a practiced feel to them, as if he has done this many times. Her eyes flutter open and she leans against him as she tries to find her feet again. Matheus nods to her, runs a finger along his shoulder to show her where she should accept the bite.
The nun’s eyes are wide in the candlelight. She still looks unsteady, but she returns his nod, stares upward, and crosses herself.
“We are dead?” she asks.
“This is purgatory,” Matheus replies.
Belisencia’s chin rises. She leans toward Hugh the Baptist, her lips trembling. The plaguer’s mouth opens again, a dark chasm rimmed by yellowed teeth. Lines of spittle span the lips, like cobwebs across the mouth of a barrel.
I try to rush forward but the knife cuts into my flesh and the mercenary’s hands jerk at my hair as he chuckles. “You going next, knight man.”
This is her choice, I tell myself. This is her choice. And perhaps she is right.
I have watched a plaguer speak. I have seen the tapestry of Joseph the Devout.
Perhaps she is right.
But it does not seem right, and I feel a coward for doing nothing.
Hugh the Baptist’s noseless face b
ecomes a mask of seams and creases as he opens his mouth even wider. As he prepares to send Belisencia to heaven or to hell or to a shambling existence of mindless hunger. He leans toward Belisencia, and I pray that Matheus is right.
Chapter 17
Belisencia whimpers and just as I decide that I cannot allow this to happen, the sappers in my mind send another wall crumbling to dust.
Hugh the Baptist shrieks.
It is not like the previous cry. There is terror in the sound. The plaguer thrashes in his chair, shakes his head back and forth wildly, shrieks again and again. The old chair rocks backward and forward as the plaguer tries to flee from the nun.
Belisencia puts her hands to her ears and screams. She catches her breath and turns to Matheus, her eyes swollen with horror. “Wh-what is happening? What is happening?”
Matheus looks as horrified as she does. He pants a few breaths and looks from Hugh to Belisencia. “He…” But no other words come. Not even Matheus’s eloquence can counter the horror.
Hugh’s screams change to words. The same words over and over again. Wild cries, growing louder and louder.
“Whodoesnotbelievewillbecondemned. Whodoesnotbelievewillbecondemned! Whodoesnotbelievewillbecondemned! Whodoesnotbelievewillbecondemned!”
His head jerks from side to side so powerfully that the flesh at his neck rips open and bleeds. The bishop’s hat sails from his head and lands in a corner. Wet slaps resound in the room as his cheeks strike the back of the chair again and again. His body spasms and lurches against the ropes. The chair rattles and pounds the wooden floor in a ragged rhythm.
“Whodoesnotbelievewillbecondemned! Whodoesnotbelievewillbecondemned! Whodoesnotbelievewillbecondemned!”
The cries are so loud in the tiny room that they seem to pierce my brain. Belisencia screams and screams. Matheus clutches at his hair and stares at Hugh with widemouthed panic. The Italian mercenary lowers his knife. I glance over my shoulder and see him backing toward the entrance, his eyes on Hugh, his head shaking from side to side slowly.
Nostrum (The Scourge, Book 2) Page 9