Tristan turns the horses northward. Something in my memory nags at me. I once heard something about an abbey east of Norwich. Yes. Richard FitzAlan, earl of Arundel, spoke about this abbey. His family gave vast amounts of money for its construction. I try to remember the name of the place. Was it St. Benedict? St. Bernard? Lord Richard told me he visits the monastery once a year, when the abbot holds a feast for its patrons. Perhaps my family’s ties to the earl will be helpful in procuring a surgeon at this abbey.
More of the narrow channels crop up in the fields, and those fields become more and more sodden. The land becomes a swamp. Our horses have to work hard to keep us moving. I fear for their safety in the treacherous muck.
A vast, muddy pit becomes visible to the west, and one of the narrow channels of water passes to one side of it. I remember Lord Richard telling me about the peat mines in the area and imagine a hundred mud-caked diggers cutting peat sods from that massive hole and loading them onto barges in the channel.
The spire of the monastery church glints in the late-afternoon sun. I see thick curtain walls and a gatehouse to the northwest, where the main entrance lies. A river flows between us and the monastery, but a triple-arched stone bridge just west of the abbey crosses the waterway. The wagon wheels spin and hiss in the wet soil as we ride toward the river. Our horses snort and take careful steps in the slick mud. The cowslips and daisies give way to fen orchids and fleabane. For the first time, I am thankful for the strong Norfolk winds; without them the midges would feast on us.
It is an elegant stone bridge. The three arches are reflected in the water below, completing the circles and looking like an elaborate pillory. Tristan glances back at me and I nod. The horses lower their heads and heave the wagon onto the bridge. The wheels rumble and grind along the thick sandstone blocks. When we have crossed, we turn toward the monastery.
A portion of the river has been diverted toward the abbey so that the water forms a moat around the curtain walls. The gatehouse is opulent as only buildings owned by the Church can be. Statues of dead men who were famous long ago fill the niches on either side of a massive arched window at the top of the gatehouse. Tracery of limestone and knapped flint covers the spaces above the niches and at the crest of the structure.
Tristan stops the wagon at the moat, directly in front of the entrance. The thick, oaken drawbridge is raised. I wonder that there are no plaguers out here. Surely a place this large must be full of villagers and townsfolk.
I peer upward at the central window. Is there movement there? I stand and cup my hands to my mouth. “We seek entry to the abbey!” The shouting makes me cough, and I have to sit again. The fever has returned, like a hot tide coming in.
Tristan gives me a worried look, then calls up to the gatehouse. “Open the gates! We’d like to buy indulgences! And tithe! And donate ale!”
“That won’t help,” I say.
But perhaps it does, because a woman pushes open one side of the hinged windowpane and leans out. I can only see her head, neck, and one shoulder, but she appears to be naked.
“Good day!” She laughs as the other pane opens and a stout man, also seemingly unclothed, leans out and kisses her on the mouth. They appear to be drunk as well as naked.
“What sort of abbey is this?” Belisencia asks. She cups her hands to her mouth and calls up, “Stop your lewdness at once!”
“Yes!” Tristan shouts. “You’ll catch a terrible bout of Original Sin!” Belisencia glares at him. He shrugs. “And leprosy!”
The man looks down at us and calls back. “We ain’t allowing carts in through the main gate no more. Everything gets loaded by ships now, on the River Bure.”
All three of us fall silent. We gaze at each other and I know the same thought has come to us all.
“What did you say the river is called?” Tristan shouts.
“You have to unload on the river,” he calls back. “We’ll send a ship.”
“I understand that!” I shout. “What is the name of the river?” More coughing.
The man says something to the woman beside him. She laughs and he addresses us again. “The Bure,” he says. “Just go back over the bridge and wait at the riverbank.”
My breath catches. Tristan gazes at the moat, then turns to me. “Do you think that moat goes all the way around the abbey?”
I understand what he is implying. My heart rumbles, thunder in my chest. “It would be useless if it didn’t.”
I stare at the crenelated curtain walls. At the hulking gatehouse and the thick-planked drawbridge. It is fortified, this abbey. And it is completely surrounded by water. Tears sting my eyes.
We have found the island fortress.
Chapter 44
“In the name of King Richard and the earl of Arundel, I order you to lower the drawbridge,” I say.
The smile leaves the man’s face. He looks at me, brows drawn downward. “King who?” He laughs loudly, and the woman at his side joins him. Is it a sin to despise people you have never met?
“You will open the gates, or will you hang for treas…” I cough and do not stop coughing for a long while. Belisencia helps me sit down in the cart and wipes at my forehead with the hem of her robe.
“He is sick,” she shouts. “He needs a surgeon.”
The man shakes his head. “We don’t need plague here.”
“It’s not plague!” Belisencia shouts. “He has a festering wound.”
The man looks down at us silently.
“We can pay,” Tristan says.
“Did you say the earl of Arundel?” The man replies.
“Yes, he did,” Tristan says. “He is good friends with the earl.”
“You aren’t here to cause trouble? Because we will hang you and flay your skin and torture you if you are.”
“No trouble,” I call, my voice gravelly.
“I’m sorry,” Tristan says. “Did you say hang, flay, and then torture?”
“We’ll make you very unhappy if you try to hurt anyone here.”
“Please don’t take this badly,” Tristan says, “but this conversation is making me very unhappy. Can you open the gate, please?”
The man frowns and says something to the woman at his side, then calls down, “You said the earl of Arundel is your friend?”
“Like brothers,” Tristan says. “Brothers who really like each other.”
“Wait there.”
He disappears, and the woman entertains us by singing an out-of-tune Norfolk tavern song of some sort.
It takes a long time for anything to happen. I doze in the cart and dream of clawing hands and eyes black as a sinner’s soul. I wake with a start when Belisencia touches my shoulder.
A deep rattle of chains and the clanking of a massive windlass resound across the countryside. The drawbridge tilts downward. Thick chains guide the oaken platform until it rests on the damp soil. Four men wearing hardened leather vests and holding halberds stand in the gateway. The thickset man from the window stands between them in linen breeches and a loose tunic of wool.
“Is the alchemist here?” I ask as we roll into the gatehouse. Despite my fever, I tremble at the thought of being this close to Elizabeth’s salvation. No one replies to my question. Instead, they inspect us. They do not seem surprised at the walnuts in the cart, but they are impressed with the two hand cannons. Tristan draws his dagger when one of the halberdiers walks away with both guns. The window man holds up a hand. “You’ll get them back. No weapons allowed in the monastery. I’ll have your swords and daggers, too.” His breath smells of wine.
“You’ll give us back our cannons now,” Tristan says. “And maybe we won’t kill all of you.”
“I knew they were trouble, John,” one of the halberdiers says. “They’re like the others.”
“No trouble.” I unstrap Saint Giles’s sword from my waist and hand it to the portly drunk man, John. “We’re no trouble at all.”
Tristan looks at me, sighs, then hands the dagger over.
&n
bsp; “Where’s your sword?” John asks Tristan.
“At the bottom of a river,” Tristan says.
“How’d it get to the bottom of a river?”
“Is the alchemist here?” I ask.
“I thought you needed a surgeon,” John says.
“I do. But I also need an alchemist. Is he here?” I try to keep the desperation from my voice.
John studies me for a long time. “Let’s have a look at your wound.”
I show him my wrist. He inspects it, then nods. “We don’t have a surgeon, but we might be able to help. You said you’re friends with Lord Richard? What’s your name?”
“Edward Dallingridge, of Bodiam.”
Knights do not live long unless they have a finely honed sense of danger. The glance that passes between two of the halberdiers is a fleeting one, but even in my fevered state I recognize something dangerous in it.
“Tristan, why don’t you and Belisencia wait outside,” I say.
“Nonsense,” Belisencia replies. “We will stay with you, Edward.”
Tristan does not reply but I see his posture change. I do not think he saw the glance between the halberdiers, but he knows something is wrong now.
“Wait here in the gatehouse,” John says. “I’ll see what can be done for you.”
He walks off, slightly unsteady, toward a smaller gatehouse and another curtain wall of napped flint. It is a hundred paces easily to the gate, so we watch him walk for a long time.
There are no makeshift tents or mattresses in the monastery grounds. There are fishponds and buildings along the river, vineyards and plowed fields, stables and orchards, but there seem to be few people in the abbey grounds. I wonder why the place is not flooded with villagers. I wonder how many soldiers guard this place. I wonder if I will die here, perhaps a hundred paces from my goal.
John stumbles back after a time and climbs into the wagon with us. “Go to the church. Past that small gatehouse.” The wheels chime and John glances at the strips of metal on the wagon wheel. He kicks at the walnuts in the wagon bed. “Where’d you get this cart?”
“It belonged to a simpleton,” I say.
John nods. “Where is the simpleton?”
“He’s with my sword,” Tristan replies.
The church is not impressive for a monastery of this size. It is larger than most village churches but lacks the grandeur of abbey structures. The only interesting feature is an octagonal tower, plated in lead, which rises high above the church. The turret is crowned with a tall spire that juts into the sky, far higher than the smaller Norman tower on the west end. This spire was the one I saw from the marshes.
We leave the cart near the great, iron-hinged doors and John leads us into the church. I feel unsteady on my feet. Belisencia and Tristan try to take my arms but I shrug them off.
“Are you taking us to the alchemist?” I ask.
John does not reply. I have a terrible foreboding. He could be leading us anywhere. We have no weapons, and even if I had my sword, I do not think I could swing it more than once or twice.
The church is narrow. It has no aisles and the choir just past the crossing is a cramped one. The ceiling is vaulted and ribbed, with the faces of monks staring down wherever two ribs intersect.
John walks quickly through the nave to a small arched doorway just before the south transept, and then up a long set of spiral stairs. The stairs wind anticlockwise, of course, and they prove too much for me. I have to stop and sit down several times, my coughs echoing in the stairwell.
John sighs and shuffles his feet each time he has to wait for me. Eventually I get to the top. Small spheres, like tiny beads of glass, appear in my vision and pop like bubbles. I have to lean against the tower wall to stay on my feet. My breath rasps. Tristan looks at me and I nod reassuringly.
John raps on a thick door at the very top of the tower and, after a moment’s wait and the clank of a thick metal latch, the door opens.
Belisencia gasps. Even Tristan backs up a step at the sight. I look past them and see a thin man in the doorway. But he is like no man I have ever seen; this man has the head of a bird.
“Are you ready to die?” the bird man says.
Chapter 45
The bird-headed man turns his beaked face slightly and peers at us. “Oh, these are the knights.” He backs into the octagonal chamber and motions for us to enter. “My apologies. I thought you were someone else.”
John enters the chamber but the three of us remain outside the door. I think Tristan and Belisencia would have fled already if I was in good health. I have seen a bird man like this before. I have had nightmares about such a creature. Long, long ago. But I cannot place the time. I study him closely and realize that he does not have a bird head at all. He merely wears a long-beaked mask.
“You can go in,” I whisper to Tristan. “It’s a mask.”
“I know it’s a mask,” Tristan whispers back. “But knowing doesn’t make me any more inclined to go in.”
I brush past him and understand his hesitation. There are three long trestle tables in the room and all three have bodies chained onto them. The closest is of a powerful-looking naked man. He turns his head toward me. His eyes are like a plaguers’ eyes, only a deep blood red instead of black. He opens his mouth and a monstrous tongue lolls from it as he hisses.
“He is bound by chains,” the thin man says. “He cannot hurt you.”
I step inside. Tristan and Belisencia follow, taking short shuffling steps. Two men in leather jerkins stand just inside the door, short swords at their waists. They watch us carefully, hands on hilts.
The room is like a scholar’s library—the ones where bookshelves have been stacked to dizzying heights and affixed to every wall. Except the shelves do not contain books. They contain phials and flasks, ceramic jars, leather pouches, pestles and mortars, funnels, and round-bottomed flasks, and all manner of what I can only assume are alchemical tools.
“You…” The words will not come out. “You…”
“Yes, his case is quite severe,” the thin man says. “He seems terribly disoriented.”
“You are the alchemist,” I say finally.
The thin man takes off the wide-brimmed hat and slips the mask off his head.
I remember where I saw such masks. When I was a child, during the Black Death. I think doctors used to wear them to keep from contracting the Plague.
The alchemist walks to a peg and carefully hangs the hat, then places the mask on a shelf beside the peg. He studies the mask, uses both hands to adjust its position, studies it again, and nods.
“I am a scholar,” he says. “Alchemists search for what might be. I study what is.”
“So, is there a cure?” I say.
The alchemist studies me for a long moment, then shrugs. “Might be.”
He threads his way through the tables toward the back wall of the tower.
“You cannot imagine the things we have gone through to get here,” I say. “Tell me, please, is there a cure for this plague? I must know.”
“Patience is bitter,” the alchemist says, “but its fruit is sweet. Come to my workspace first so that I might look at your wound.”
I follow the alchemist past the first table, the one with the powerfully built naked man. The man hisses again; his red eyes follow me.
The second table holds another naked man, but this one’s eyes are normal. His bound hand stretches toward me as I pass and a single tear streaks down his cheek. He opens his mouth and I see no tongue. His throat is blistered and yellow and raw, but he manages a sorrowful croak.
I cannot look closely at the last table. It is like a butcher’s block. A man has been cut open from throat to groin, and his ribs have been pulled apart. I have seen men cut wide open on the battlefield, but there is something ghastly about seeing one cut up in such a methodical fashion and displayed in this way. As I pass, the head turns toward me and I jump back so sharply that I clatter against the second table.
“H
e’s alive!” I shout. Mother Mary, the man is still alive. His eyes are completely black. Belisencia squeals and covers her mouth, buries her face in Tristan’s chest.
The alchemist has taken position at a wide wooden shelf that is set into one wall and supported by chains that rise to the ceiling. He glances back. “Yes, he is alive. Do not disturb him.”
“Lucifer’s bollocks!” Tristan says. “He’s disturbing me!”
“What are you doing to him?” I ask.
The alchemist sighs deeply. “You are fighting men,” he replies. “It is beyond your understanding.” He sees my expression and holds up a hand. “I mean no offense. Such things are simply beyond the scope of men like you.”
“How could that possibly be offensive?” Tristan says.
“Who are these people?” I ask.
The alchemist crosses his arms. “I had been led to believe one of you had a wound that needed tending.”
I hold out my arm and the alchemist studies my wound, smells it, then holds my wrist up to one of the arched windows. I glance out and see a lone horseman riding south. The alchemist shakes his head. “English medicine can do nothing for this wound.”
Tristan takes a step toward him. “What kind of—”
“And so,” The alchemist says sharply, “it is a good thing that you came to me, for I do not rely solely upon English medicine.” He walks a few paces along the perimeter of the tower and gestures to one of the guards at the doorway. “Daniel, the ladder, if you please.” The guard, blond and sharp-eyed, fetches a ladder leaning near the doorway and brings it to the alchemist. When the guard nears me, I notice strange mottled scars across his forehead and one side of his jaw. “Fifth shelf,” the alchemist says. “In a jar with a green circle painted on it.”
Daniel climbs the ladder, takes the thick jar in two hands, and carefully steps down. The alchemist brings the jar to the workbench and removes the thick cork from the top. A vile odor fills the air. It is like the smell of a dead fish left out in the sun for days, then dropped into a bowl of rotted eggs. Inside the jar is a brown paste.
“What is that filth?” I ask.
Nostrum (The Scourge, Book 2) Page 23