“England is doomed.” My grin is a brief one.
“God has shown you the truth. The afflicted are not demons. They are sick. They must be protected and healed. They are not to be slaughtered, Edward.”
“Sometimes they must be slaughtered,” I say.
The priest shakes his head. “You would not slay a madman would you? Or an imbecile?”
I blow out long breath. “Only when there was no other choice.”
“Only when there is no other choice,” he confirms. We sit in silence for a time before he speaks again. “Your salvation is within reach. Protect the afflicted, Edward. And put the cure in the proper hands.”
“And where will I find these proper hands?” I ask.
“On the proper person,” he replies with a smile. I fix him with a stare and he grows sober. “God gave you the cure, Sir Edward. It is you who must find that person.”
“God should be more selective.”
He points toward the crucifix. “Make your promise.”
I kneel on the cold stones again and clasp my hands, stare at a poor carpenter hanging from a cross, and I make my oath.
We rise at the first hint of dawn and help the priests distribute bread to the families that have made the monastery their home. Tristan lets children try on his gauntlets and both his helms. The children adore his silliness. They trail after him in a long line around the monastery for the rest of the morning.
I give Morgan the jar of Malta fungus and tell him to apply it to his wounds. He argues at first and recoils from the foul smelling substance, but I threaten to have Tristan hold him down and do it myself, so he relents.
We break our fast with a loaf of hard bread and a cup of wine, then Tristan and I brush down our horses in the cloisters.
“There is that smell again,” Zhuri says. “Like a woman wearing flowers in her hair.”
“We’re in the cloisters, Zhuri,” Tristan says. “There are flowers all around us. Why would you think the smell was coming from one of us?”
Zhuri tilts his head and studies Tristan. “I never said I thought it was coming from one of us.”
“How long will it take to reach St. Edmund’s Bury?” Morgan asks.
“It’s about thirty-five miles to the monastery.” I set the saddle on my horse’s back and work at the girth. “Six or seven hours at any rate.”
“It’ll take a bit longer than that,” Morgan replies. “Our cart is not very fast.”
I drape the saddlebags and work the straps that bind them to the saddle. “No, brother, it will be six or seven hours. You and Zhuri are going to Sussex.” I look up at him. “Your daughter waits for you there, Morgan. I thought I orphaned her before and I won’t take that risk again.”
Morgan stares at me for a long time, then he lunges forward and takes hold of the saddlebags, hurls them to the ground.
“Morgan what—”
“How dare you?” he shouts.
No reply comes to my mind. I simply stare at him.
“How dare you?” he shoves me backward and my horse shifts nervously, its hooves scraping dully on the stone. “Zhuri and I drove that bloody cart all over Suffolk and Norfolk looking for you! Every rut or stone we hit was agony to me, Edward, but we never relented. We rode to Bure, then Norwich, then a monastery in the middle of a damnable swamp looking for you. We have ridden for four days so that we could find you and help save Lady Elizabeth. And now you have the hocks to send us home? I swore an oath of fealty to you, Edward. Fealty!” The shouts ring in the cloisters. A startled sparrow flutters out from an old oak. “You have dragged me clear across England to find your wife and, oath or no oath, I will not go home now, when only thirty miles separates you from her. I will not go home! Do you hear me? I will not go home! How dare you!”
“Sussex sounds nice, actually,” Zhuri says.
“I’m sorry,” I try to suppress a smile. “Morgan, we would be honored to have your company on our journey. Would you like to accompany us to St. Edmund’s Bury?”
He glowers and crosses his arms. “No I bloody wouldn’t. But you can’t stop me.”
“Nor will I try again.” I look into his eyes so he can see my sincerity. “Thank you, Morgan.”
“You’re bloody welcome.”
We ride double across the fens of Norfolk, our horses sloshing though calf-deep water. It takes time to find the stable where Morgan and Zhuri stowed their cart and horse. In the end, we simply follow the sounds of snarling. A crowd of plaguers shuffles around the dingy wooden structure.
“I count eleven,” I say. “Let’s find an easy place to defend and draw them in.” I speak the words instinctively, then remember my conversation with Father Peter.
Morgan shakes his head. “Edward, those are people.”
Tristan scoffs. “They’re plaguers, Morgan.”
“They are people,” Morgan replies. “People who can be healed.”
“If we had a cure,” Tristan replies. “Those people will never be healed. They will wander like that until they rot. Is that truly what you want for them?”
“It doesn’t matter what I want, Tristan,” he says. “What matters is what God wants. And God said ‘thou shalt not kill.’”
“Yes,” Tristan replies. “But he was speaking figuratively.”
The afflicted are not demons. I made an oath to a crucified God, and so I must defend the victims of this plague. I must become champion of the dead.
“No, Morgan’s right,” I say. “These are people.”
“People who want to eat us,” Tristan replies. “People standing between us and Elizabeth.”
Tristan has fought at my side for two decades. He knows my weaknesses.
I cannot go to Elizabeth while these people surround the stable. And truly, what are a dozen more lives in this ocean of death? I touch the hilt of my sword, the leather worn and hard by years of use.
I made an oath.
“No,” I say. “They are people. And we’re not going to kill them. Humanity is the triumph of will over instinct.”
Tristan sighs. “And death is the triumph of instinct over humanity. So what do you suggest, Ed?”
“I’m going to reason with them.”
Tristan laughs, then sees I am serious. “Reason with them?”
Zhuri shakes his head. “There is no reasoning with the dead, Edward.”
“They’re only figuratively dead, Zhuri.” I ride toward the shed, shouting at the afflicted. “You’ll never get in there! Come at me instead! Come feed!”
It takes a moment for the plaguers to acknowledge my existence. They turn to face me, a few at a time. One peels itself from the stable wall and staggers toward me. Then another. Within moments every one of them lurches in my direction.
I lead them from the stable, around a patch of alders and through a field of turnips. Plaguers are lazy. They will not chase prey over long stretches, so I ride slowly and circle back close to them several times. When I am a hundred paces from the stable, I glance back. The wagon is outside. Tristan and Zhuri are hitching the horse. We have our cart and God has His peace.
A triumph for humanity.
Chapter 10
Morgan’s bloody cart mires itself every hundred paces or so along the marshy grasslands of southern Norfolk. Tristan and I must dismount each time and shove until the lumbering thing pulls free. It is a muddy, tiresome routine that slows us down and makes me anxious. Morgan insists he can ride, but I do not believe him. His skin, though healing, is still raw and new blood soaks through the white robes he wears. I give him ointment to apply to his wounds, but not even Malta fungus will heal him quickly. He should be resting. Mending at the Hedingham convent, not traveling across a plague-swept England.
Our floundering pace through the fenland is vexing, but it is not my biggest concern. My biggest concern is knowing that if we are to make it to St. Edmund’s Bury with the cart, we will have to travel upon main roads. And that is a grave problem, because Sir Gerald knows our destination. Our
only chance of avoiding him is by skirting roads. If we had no cart, we could approach through Thetford Forest and slip into the city at night. But Morgan has paid a higher price than any of us on this quest. He has every right to be there at the end.
We reach an old trail heading southwest and set the cart upon it. It is a worn path, thick with half-buried flints. It will not be a comfortable ride, but the ground is dry. A thick mist smolders around us, sapping color from the world.
Tristan rides beside the cart. Morgan watches him for a time, then points to the cross dangling from the knight’s neck.
When we were at Hedingham, moments before the plague took Morgan, he hung the cross around Tristan’s neck and spoke: “When you find your faith, this will protect you.”
The carved wooden symbol is said to be made from the True Cross, upon which Jesus was crucified. Morgan traded with Gregory the Wanderer for the relic. He gave the old man a fully barded warhorse in return for the cross and a few other artifacts. At the time I thought him a fool for making such a trade, but I have seen Morgan perform miracles with that cross. Repelling plaguers. Breaking a charge of mounted knights. Tristan would say they were coincidences. But I have witnessed coincidences, and I have never felt the touch of God in them. I felt that touch when Morgan wielded his cross.
Tristan looks down at the relic, draws it off his neck and tosses it to Morgan.
“I hope it helped,” Morgan says. “Did you find your faith, Tristan?”
“Yes,” he replies. “Turns out I had left it at a tavern. Went back the next day and there was my faith, still on the table where I’d left it. Damned lucky no one walked off with it.”
“Always joking,” Morgan replies. “You try to hide behind your humor, Tristan. You think it will shield you from His sight. But God sees everything. He watches everything you do and everything you say.”
“It seems to me that God isn’t the most efficient of creatures,” Tristan replies. “Why watch everything? If He can see anything, then why not just watch the interesting parts?”
“You are a damned miscreant,” Morgan says.
“And you are faithful and devout?” Tristan asks.
“I try to be.”
“So explain to me, Morgan, how you can accept the fact that an alchemist cured you.”
“Tristan.” I growl the word.
“It’s fine, Edward,” Morgan shrugs his great shoulders. “It’s a fair question.” He looks at Tristan. “I did not make the decision. All I can do is accept the path that God has shown me, and to do as much good as I can with the additional time He has given me.”
Tristan scoffs. “But He didn’t give you extra time. A magic elixir did. A sorcerer conjured you back from the dead.”
“Zhuri made the decision,” Morgan says. “I cannot be blamed for a decision I had no part in.”
The Moor glances back from the driver’s platform. “Perhaps I should have left you rotting in the cellar then.”
“That’s not what I meant . . .”
“So Zhuri, who thought he was doing good, should be damned, but you, who benefitted from his actions, are innocent.”
“Zhuri is not a Christian. It is irrelevant what he did or did not do.”
“So I must be Christian to be relevant?”
“You . . . both of you are twisting my words.”
“Leave him be,” I say. “I have never met a more devout man than Morgan of Hastings.”
Morgan nods several times. “Thank you, Edward.”
I nod back. “The poor man is reduced to wearing leper robes. Must you insult him as well?”
“Maybe he is a leper,” Tristan says. “Morgan, are you leper?”
“These are not leper robes!” Morgan snaps. “They are clerical vestments. I thought you were on my side, Edward.”
“Remember when those plaguers turned away from Morgan, Ed?” Tristan asks. “And you said it was the power of the relic? Maybe it wasn’t the cross. Maybe they turned away because he’s a leper.”
“Shut that arse in your face, Tristan,” Morgan snaps. “I am not a leper.”
“Leave him be,” I say. “Morgan has returned to us from the dead and the two of you are tormenting him.”
“Let them laugh at me if they wish,” Morgan says. “But know that the Lord punishes those who mock. Have you not heard the story of the children who mocked Elisha? ‘He went up from there to Bethel, and on his way, some small boys came out of the city and jeered at him, saying, ‘Go up, you baldhead! Go up, you baldhead!’ He turned around and cursed them in the name of the Lord. And two she-bears came out of the forest and tore forty-two of the boys apart.’”
“So sayeth the Lord,” I reply.
“I hope those children learned their lesson,” Tristan says. “Perhaps the kind and merciful Lord should have had them tortured first.”
Zhuri looks from Morgan to me. “Your God slaughtered forty-two children because they taunted a bald man?”
“Don’t be absurd, Zhuri,” Tristan replies. “Our God would never slaughter children. He sent two bears to do it.”
“I do not understand your religion,” Zhuri says. “I thought Christ preached forgiveness and kindness.”
“He did,” Tristan replies. “Kindness is the most important aspect of Christianity. And if anyone in the community is not kind, they are murdered in horrible ways.”
I tell Tristan to ride ahead of us, a half-mile or so, in the hopes his keen eyes will spot any danger before it spots us. But we do not need his eyes; all we need are ears. A horn blares in the distance after we travel a few more miles. Two short blasts, one long. A call for action.
“Get the cart off the road!” I shout.
Zhuri lashes the tired horse. The wagon rattles up the lip of the path and northward, toward a sparse forest. Morgan winces and holds the edge of the bench with both hands. Tristan gallops back to me and reins up, his horse blowing and lifting its forelegs off the ground.
“I couldn’t see them,” he calls. “But they’re close.”
I slap my knees against the flanks of my gelding and send him after the cart, with Tristan close behind. We catch up to Zhuri and Morgan and ride alongside until we reach the precipice of the forest. A thick mist rises in coils, like ghostly serpents.
“Hide the cart in there, and stay with our horses.” I dismount. “Tristan and I will slip through the forest. Maybe we can get a look at them.”
Tristan vaults from his saddle and takes position at my side. Vision is more important than protection right now, so we leave the nasal helmets on instead of donning our great helms. Tristan touches the leather-wrapped hand bombard jutting from a saddlebag, then glances up at the drizzle and shakes his head. He unstraps the crossbow from the saddle instead. I wait as he clamps a bolt between his teeth, puts his foot through the weapon’s stirrup, and cranks the windlass handles until the bowstring is locked in place. Then I run through the misty forest, keeping my eyes on the old road in the distance. The horn sounds again, louder, and hoofbeats rumble in the distance. We are more than a hundred paces north of the wagon trail, but I hunch low and step cautiously. The clank of our armor is muffled by the thick traveling cloaks we wear.
I hold out a hand to stop Tristan and we listen. The hoofbeats grow louder. I can hear voices in the distance, and then, much closer, the sound of weeping.
Cold water spatters my face as I sweep away a leafy branch and scan the forest. A figure stumbles through the brush and nearly falls. It is she who weeps.
The woman glances back toward the road as she walks, then scans the forest floor, her gaze sweeping wildly among the hawthorn and gorse. Someone has tied a cord around her waist and attached a fox tail that dangles from her backside.
A maiden walking alone, looking frightened, and weeping. I want only to reach Elizabeth, but how can a man of honor ignore such a scene?
Tristan and I rise and push through the wet sprigs toward her. I give a whispery shout: “Do you require assistance?”
&n
bsp; She shrieks and backs away from us, thick tears tumbling from her dark lashes. The perpetual drizzle has soaked her clothing. She is young, her black hair unbound. The thin chemise she wears is wet and torn. It clings to her and hangs off one shoulder, revealing smooth skin on a bony frame.
“I haven’t found it yet!” she screams. “I need more time!”
I hold a finger to my lips and make calming motions with my other hand. “What haven’t you found?” I take a step toward her and she backs away, shaking her head.
“The arrow.” She pants as she speaks, the panting of someone about to fall into desperate sobs. The white chemise is soaked through, revealing every feature of her reedy frame. I wonder when she last ate. “I can’t find it,” she continues. “You arrived too soon. I didn’t have a chance.”
I glance back at Tristan, who sneers at me. “You couldn’t give the poor maiden more time, could you?”
“That’s not helping, Tristan.” I take another step toward her, pull my cloak off and place it over her shoulders. “I know nothing about an arrow. Why must you find it? Are you in danger?”
She stares at me, tilts her head and sniffles. “You’re . . . you’re not part of the hunt?”
“I’m just trying to get home,” I say. “Which hunt do you speak of?”
“Witch hunt, indeed,” Tristan says.
A horn sounds, loud and very close. Men shout. Boots crash through the forest. The woman flinches at the sounds, the tears flowing again. “Please, help me.”
I look toward the road. At least five or six men. Tristan and I glance at one another. He raises his crossbow as I draw my sword. No knight with any honor could do anything else.
“Thank you, sirs.” She lifts her skirt and walks away from the road slowly. Her shoulders hunch as she scans the forest floor. Tristan and I look to one another, then back at her. She scowls at us. “Hurry! We must find the arrow. Red fletching and stripes painted on the shaft. Anon! Anon!”
“What fun,” Tristan says. “I hope we find it.”
Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) Page 6