David looks at Thomas for a long moment. “He was healthy.” But Thomas’s head shakes almost imperceptibly.
“He was sick, wasn’t he?” I say.
“No, he was fine,” David says. “He had Hilda, then went home smiling.”
“He was sick,” Thomas says. “He said some bad food got in him. But he was sick.” Thomas looks a little pale himself. I think he realizes what they have done. We sit in silence for a long while. I wonder how many men have found the plague here at the Corringham brothel. I find it hard to believe that David Lords didn’t know.
“So what’s in the mill house?” Tristan asks.
David clears his throat but says nothing.
Thomas replies instead. “David learned that them plaguers like mint. Burning it makes them crazy. They come runnin’ when they smells it. So we put burning sprigs of mint in the mill house. Lots of them. And we get the plaguers to go inside. Only … only if one of them looks pretty, we … well, we rope ’er and put her in the barn.”
“So, in the mill house…” I suddenly understand.
“There ain’t that many pretty ones,” David says.
Tristan, Morgan, and I put down the seven women of his brothel, the ones in the barn. Morgan suggests we free the other plaguers in the mill house, but I know we can’t kill that many. There are hundreds of men, women, and children. The mill house is the best place for them.
I tell David Lords that I should kill him. That if the world hadn’t gone mad, crows would be tearing at his flesh right now. “I will come back this way,” I say. “If I hear that you have opened your brothel again, I will throw you into that mill house and lock you inside with them. Do you understand?”
“Yes, m’lord. I’m sorry, m’lord.” David kneels at my feet and touches the earth with his forehead. “I won’t never do it again. I swear upon the Holy Bible. Thank you for sparing me. Thank you for sparing my life, m’lord.”
He offers us swords, but I don’t want anything from him. His goods are tainted. Morgan and Tristan agree, although Tristan can’t help asking one question.
“You don’t, by chance, have a sword that curves, do you?”
Chapter 11
Screams ring out across the marshland. Terrible, inhuman screams. I am reminded of Sir Morgan’s afflicted falcon and the cries it made. As if the screams were being inhaled instead of exhaled. We have heard cries in the distance for a long time. It is not until we crest one of the many knolls, a few miles southeast of Barstable, that we see the source of the cries. A man rides a black destrier along the westerly road, about a mile ahead of us. Sunlight gleams off his armor. He drags a body behind his horse, and it is this body from which the screams emanate.
We spur our horses into a trot and close on the rider. The body he drags behind him is naked. It looks like a man, but I’m not certain. Much of the skin has been shredded by the flint and stones of the road. The dragged man, whose hands and arms are bound with a rope attached to the rider’s saddle, screams and thrashes.
The rider hears us and slows his horse, a handsome warhorse with a thick neck and a restless stance. The knight tugs on the rope to make certain the man is still tied securely. I note the utter black of the dragged man’s eyes. Slits of pitch within a face of pulp and blood.
“Ho, good sirs,” the rider says. He is tall and wears a breastplate and chain habergeon. A chainmail cowl is pushed back off of his head so that it rests on his shoulders, and a longsword and crossbow hang from his saddle. He is a knight but wears no crest. “I am Sir Gerald of Thunresleam.”
I make introductions. Tristan points to the plaguer. “Are you trying to see how small he will get?”
Sir Gerald spits toward the bound man. “I promised Sir Hugh that I would drag this thing all the way back to Hadleigh.”
“And why would you do that?” I ask.
“Because this creature bit him,” the knight says. He yanks on the rope hard enough to make the plaguer scream. “Because this creature forced me to kill Sir Hugh.”
We ride with Sir Gerald toward Hadleigh, the plaguer’s screams making conversation a challenge. I feel pity for the dragged man. These plaguers feel pain. They suffer as we do.
“Maybe it’s time to end his pain,” I shout.
“What?”
I point to the screaming plaguer and draw a hand across my throat.
“This is my prisoner,” Gerald shouts. He yanks the rope again. “That means I decide when he dies.”
I turn away and look toward Hadleigh. I don’t want strife with this knight. I have had more than my share of strife on this journey. A column of smoke rises in the distance, probably where yet another village burns.
Gerald tells us that he and a score of other knights from Essex have taken refuge in Hadleigh Castle, under the protection of Sir John of Mucking. The castle brims with commoners from the surrounding towns and villages — commoners who sought the safety of the castle’s walls and its well-armed garrison.
“I thought King Richard owned Hadleigh Castle?” I shout, so as to be heard above the plaguer’s screams.
“He does,” Sir Gerald shouts. “And if he comes to visit, he’ll find that Sir John has done an admirable job keeping it safe from the plague. He burned a thousand plaguers on the castle motte two weeks ago and sends sorties out twice a day to keep the surrounding lands clear.”
“A good man,” I shout. I met Sir John at a tournament two years ago and he made a favorable impression on me. He seemed confident, intelligent, and courteous.
“For heaven’s sake, man,” Tristan shouts. “Haven’t you dragged this man far enough?”
Sir Gerald scowls at the plaguer. “He’ll think carefully before trying to bite another knight of Essex.” He leans toward the screaming man and shouts. “You’ll think carefully — won’t you? — you piece of filth. Won’t you?” He spits at the plaguer again.
“You’re a lunatic,” Tristan says. “Has our entire kingdom gone mad?”
Sir Gerald wheels his horse toward Tristan. “Look around you, Sir Tristan. Our entire kingdom has gone mad. The dead walk the land with demons in their hearts. If I release this man, he will try to eat us. Does that sound sane to you?” He crabs his horse closer to Tristan. “In these times of madness, only madness will save us.”
“No,” Morgan says. “In these times of madness, only God will save us. The bishops say this man has the plague, Sir Gerald. He knows not what he does.”
“This is no plague,” Gerald says. “This is the End of Days and we are at war with demons. Our Lord Jesus Christ would be proud of my work.”
“Proud. Of course,” Sir Tristan says. “Like in that old parable where Jesus dragged the sinner behind his horse for five miles.”
The plaguer begins screaming again.
Sir Morgan frowns and flips through his Bible. “I don’t know that parable. Is it in Luke?”
“Lunatics, all of you,” Tristan says, and he rides ahead.
Hadleigh Castle stands high upon a hill that overlooks the estuary of the Thames. It is a powerful thing of curtain walls and drum towers and a bulging high tower built by King Edward III, our King Richard’s grandfather. I doubt King Richard would have given anyone permission to take command of his castle, but Sir John has done well to clear the land of the plague. I have not seen even one infirm soul within two miles of the castle. Except the one being dragged by Sir Gerald.
I have always believed that authority should yield to competence, so I am glad that Sir John took over. Lord James of Dartford could take a lesson or two from this young knight.
The hill upon which the castle stands is scorched black. A new stubble of grass rises in patches, but the overall impression is that of a fortress struck by a massive fireball. Sir Gerald cuts the rope that binds the plaguer to his horse, then pours lamp oil on the man’s body and sets him alight. A score of kettle-helmed soldiers look down from the castle walls and watch the plaguer burn. Sir Morgan scowls at Sir Gerald, then takes out his Bible an
d says a prayer over the dying man as the stench of burning flesh fills the air. I am unsettled by this sort of torture. This creature was once a man. Someone once cared for him. I unsheathe my knife and end the man’s screams. Sir Gerald stares at me in silence, the muscles in his neck throbbing. I stare back.
“You fulfilled your promise,” I say. “You dragged him here. He’s suffered enough.”
“No,” Sir Gerald says. “He will never suffer enough. All the fires of hell can’t make him suffer enough for what he has done.”
“Then neither will your fires,” Tristan says, looking unusually sober.
“My fires have only just begun burning,” Sir Gerald says. His hands tremble on the reins of his horse. “I have sent forty-two of these creatures back to hell. And I will continue to do so until each and every demon has been returned to Lucifer.” He drives his spurs into the destrier and storms to the castle gate.
Sir John looks older than I remember. He can’t be past his twenty-third year, but he seems to have aged a decade since our last meeting. He is thinner and his face has seams where there were none before. He holds himself with confidence still, and his eyes shine with intelligence, but I do not see the courtesy I once did. We eat in the great hall, and his silent gaze rarely strays from me. I compliment him on his work at Hadleigh and explain my mission. When I am finished, he stares at me for a long while before he speaks.
“Do you truly expect me to believe that drivel?”
I blink at him twice but say nothing.
“You are here to take command of Hadleigh. That gangly whelp Richard sent you to take it back, didn’t he?”
“All I want is to shelter at Hadleigh with my men for the night,” I say. “I haven’t spoken to King Richard in more than a year, and the only mission I am on is to find my wife. As a further point, I would counsel you to avoid referring to the king of England as a ‘gangly whelp.’”
“But he is a gangly whelp,” Sir John says. “He is a little boy who plays with his friends while his kingdom rots. Where is Richard? Where are England’s armies? Why is nothing being done about this demonic invasion?”
The questions are ones that I share. I don’t know where King Richard’s armies are. Or where Richard himself is. The last I heard, the king was preparing for an assault on Scotland. The plague swept across the kingdom so quickly that everyone was cut off from one another. England became a Kingdom of islands. Of fiefs and isolated villages once more. Where was King Richard? Where were the armies of England?
“I’m sure King Richard is fighting for England.” I cut at the scrawny pheasant on my plate. “Each man must take responsibility for his corner of the kingdom now. As you have done, Sir John. As I am trying to do.”
“And you expect me to believe that you are fighting your way through England — braving vast armies of demons, risking not only your life but your very soul — for one woman? A woman who most assuredly is dead or plagued already?”
I set down my serving knife and finish chewing a strip of gamey pheasant. I wipe at my mouth with the tablecloth, then rise to my feet, setting fists on either side of the plate.
“I don’t give a rat’s bollocks what you believe,” I growl. The confidence slips from John’s face. “I would hack my way through purgatory and battle the legions of hell for my Elizabeth. If you think I give a camel’s cock about who runs this castle, then you are a bigger fool than King Richard or any of his friends.”
Sir John clears his throat, regains some of his composure. “You are not a spy for Richard? Then swear it.” He glances around the room. There are eleven knights in the chamber, not including Tristan and Morgan, and a dozen soldiers and servants. “A Bible! Someone get me a Bible!”
A servant runs from the room to get one, but Sir Morgan walks the length of the table and drops his tattered book in front of Sir John before the servant can return. Sir John flips through it before handing it to me. “Swear upon this that you are not Richard’s spy.”
I look at the Bible and wonder if God still listens to oaths sworn upon it. I wonder if God still listens to anything. But I place my hand upon the worn Bible and meet Sir John’s gaze. “I swear I am not a spy for King Richard. I swear that my only mission is to find my wife. And I swear, before God, that you were far more courteous the first time we met, Sir John.”
Sir John’s scowl fades. He nods to me as Morgan takes back the Bible.
“I am sorry, Sir Edward,” John says. “Courtesy must come second to safety. We have worked hard to secure these lands, and I won’t let a bumbling whelp like Richard wipe away our toils.”
“I understand your concerns,” I say. “I have had clashes with the upper nobility in the past.”
Sir John laughs, and he is twenty-three again. “Yes!” he shouts. “Is it true that you challenged the king’s uncle to a duel during a Court of Lords?”
I take interest in the pheasant upon my plate again.
“Twice,” Sir Tristan says. “Sir Edward called him a festering imbecile with more bile than bollocks.”
The knights and soldiers join in the laughter and look my way. I shrug. “I spent a week in a dungeon for it. And that was only John of Gaunt I insulted. Just the King’s uncle. What do you think they’ll do to you, Sir John, if they hear that you called the king ‘a bumbling whelp’?”
Sir John doesn’t seem concerned. “There’s a new law in England, Sir Edward. The kingdom is reborn and good men will rise to the top. King Richard’s days on the throne are all but over.”
Sir Gerald, out of his armor now, slams his tankard on the rough-hewn oak table.“Long live King John!” The other knights and soldiers raise their tankards and repeat the words. “Long live King John!”
The brashness of it makes my jaw clench. What they chant is treason. Sir John has enough humility to look embarrassed.
“I am not your king,” he says.
“Not yet,” one of the knights calls.
“Long live King John!” Sir Gerald shouts.
Each of these knights swore fealty to their liege-lord, and to King Richard. I wonder at how quickly men will abandon their allegiances. But Sir John has cleared the lands around Hadleigh of plague. He has protected the populace and obviously has plans for the future. And what has Richard done?
I suppose there could be worse kings than Sir John. But I am sworn to Richard, and that means more to old warriors like me than to young knights such as these. I wonder if sacred oaths can be enforced when God no longer listens.
“I wish you well on your mission, Sir Edward,” Sir John says. “She must be a special woman indeed. You may rest here as long as you wish. My castle is at your service. If you want to stay at Hadleigh, I ask only that you earn your keep. Bring food for my people, kill the demons that wander the countryside. Assist in any way you can.”
“Perhaps I will return and do my part,” I say, “but I leave in the morning with my men, Sir John. We have a long journey still to make.”
“Of course,” Sir John says. “But while you are here, would the three of you care to join our council meeting? We have a grave problem facing us. A problem that must be addressed quickly.”
“A problem?” Sir Morgan asks. “Something to do with the plague?”
“No, Sir Morgan, I fear it is worse than this scourge that the archbishops call a plague.” Sir John looks older than his years again.
“Worse than this plague?” Tristan asks. “What could be worse than half of our kingdom trying to eat the other half?”
Sir John seems to consider this for a moment. He nods once, seemingly to himself, then rises and motions for us to follow him. We leave the great hall and climb the six flights of winding stairs in the castle’s massive high tower. We emerge into the night, where the scent of brine is thick in the cool air. Sir John gestures past the crenellations toward the east, where I had seen the column of smoke earlier. Sir Morgan gasps.
“Oh dear God,” Tristan says.
I run my hands over my head. Sir John i
s right. It is worse than the plague.
The French are in England.
Chapter 12
We creep quietly in the darkness, along the sodden earth of a village called Lighe. Cold winds from the North Sea rake our bodies, ripple the high grasses and flutter our cloaks. Hadleigh Castle is a quarter mile behind us, a stone crown upon a high ridge.
I hunch down among a wall of hedges and peer up through the gaps at a new church built upon a towering hill in the village. The French have taken the church as their command post. I would have done the same — the hill commands a perfect view of the entire village. Not that the entire village is that hard to see. It is little more than a dozen wooden cottages, some fishermen’s huts along the sea, and fifteen or twenty crooked docks of fading wood that jut out into the lapping waters of the Thames.
Tristan is with me, as are Morgan, Sir John, and Sir Gerald. Sir John has heard of my exploits in France. He has never fought the French and he wants my help in defeating them.
“Just advice,” he said at the castle. “I seek only advice on how best to deal with them.”
In return, he offered provisions for our journey as well as new swords for the three of us, and a new crossbow for Sir Tristan.
“Just advice,” I said.
“Just advice,” he agreed.
I told him that I wanted to see the French encampment up close to gain a measure of the invaders’ strength. And what I see now is no comfort at all. They number somewhere near a thousand. More than half of those wear mail. I estimate that thirty or so are knights with horses and full harness.
They are busy little Frenchmen. Even at dusk they work. Two wagons pulled by oxen carry the towering bronze bells of a nearby church. Plunder to be sold or melted down or to adorn one of their own froggy churches. Men maneuver one of the bells onto a gangplank to be loaded onto the largest of their five ships.
“They are here for a raid,” I say. “Burning and plundering. They’ll be on their way soon enough. My advice is to leave them alone.”
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