Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3)

by Roberto Calas

  He laughs, and the madness returns to his eyes.

  . “No Edward, I will not do that.”

  “Why not, Your Majesty?”

  “Because. . .” His voice catches and he becomes silent for a long moment. “Because Queen Anne is now a part of these dark times.” He takes a long, rattling breath. “She is no better than a Scot now.”

  So many wives lost to this plague. We are wolves with no hunger, hiding behind stone and subsisting on grief. It is no wonder there is so much madness in the world. I touch the bulge of Elizabeth’s cure again. Richard’s wife, the Good Queen Anne, is plagued. It is a tragedy, and yet, I see fortune as well. Opportunity.

  “I am truly sorry,” I say.

  Richard seems to grow smaller as I watch. “God took her from me, Edward. He is punishing me. I think even the Lord wanted my father to rule.”

  “God hasn’t taken her,” I reply. “This is test. A test of your faith.”

  “Hallelujah,” Tristan mutters.

  “You can bring Queen Anne back,” I say. “There is a cure for this plague.”

  Richard shakes his head slowly. “There is no cure, Edward. This is God’s Wrath. And only God can lift it.”

  I point to Morgan, who stands, cowled, behind Richard. “Sir Morgan’s plague was lifted.”

  Morgan draws his hood back, revealing the deep, glistening wound on his jaw. Richard studies him without expression.

  I have three cures left. Elizabeth’s hangs from my neck, and the other two—one from the alchemist and one that Zhuri gave me—are stashed in a poke at my belt. I draw out one of the ampoules and set it on the arm of Richard’s throne.

  “There is a cure.”

  Richard looks from Morgan to the ampoule. “What sort of cure?”

  I pretend to drink more wine from my goblet. This is where things fall apart. God and science live in warring kingdoms.

  “It is an alchemical cure,” I reply.

  He sits upright and hisses. “Alchemy? That is the devil’s work.”

  “Christ was an alchemist,” I reply. “He turned water to wine. And Moses was a sorcerer.”

  “So sayeth the Lord,” Tristan says.

  “The Lord never said that,” Sir Simon replies.

  Richard picks up the ampoule and peers at it, glances at Morgan.

  Sir Simon leans forward, shaking his head. “Your Majesty, surely you aren’t considering this. Alchemy is sinful.”

  I think about the young woman searching for the arrow when I first met Simon, and wonder how he can speak of sin. “If this scourge was God’s doing,” I say, repeating the words of Father Peter, “then only God can undo it. And if this cure heals the afflicted, then God wants us to have it.”

  Richard taps the ampoule against the throne nervously, licks his lips. “If I give this to my queen, she will return me?”

  “God will bring her back,” I reply.

  Sir Simon shakes his head. “Your Majesty, I do not think this is wise. God punishes alchemists and sorcerers. And he will punish you if you turn to such evil measures.”

  Richard laughs again, the wild laughter that truly shows his madness. He wipes at his eyes and gestures with both hands to the entirety of the lower courtyard. “Look around you, Simon. We are in Hell already. What more can God possibly do to us?”

  “He can deny you Heaven, Your Majesty,” Simon replies. “Do not throw away an eternity with your queen. What is that verse? ‘All flesh is like grass and grass withers . . . I can’t remember.”

  “‘All flesh is like grass,’” Morgan recites. “‘The grass withers, and the flower falls, but the word of the Lord remains forever.’”

  I stare at Morgan. He shrugs.

  Richard strokes his lower lip with a forefinger. He glances at Simon, then at me. No one speaks for a long time. Tristan whistles a cheerful tune.

  Finally, Richard sits up and nods. “If God did not want me to heal my queen, he would not have brought the cure to me.”

  “We don’t know if that is a cure,” Simon replies. “We don’t know what that is.”

  Richard clasps the ampoule in his fist. “Simon, my queen is plagued already. She cannot get any worse.”

  Tristan clears his throat. “Actually—”

  I throw my empty goblet at him and he shuts his mouth.

  Chapter 18

  The king leads us through the lower courtyard and into the castle. He picks up his pace with each step, and by the time we are in the inner courtyard, he is sprinting and laughing.

  “There is a cure!” he shouts. “There is a cure!”

  I chase after him, my companions close behind. Sir Simon and a dozen soldiers stream behind us like a military parade. Richard holds the cure between thumb and forefinger, high in the air like a holy relic. He runs high-legged, like his prancing horse. “There is a cure!”

  Zhuri runs at my side. “He’s mad!”

  “That he is,” I reply.

  “And this is your king? This is the man you have sworn allegiance to?”

  I shrug and pick up my pace. “Men will follow anyone.”

  We sprint through the castle bailey to a chapel that juts from the eastern wall. Two pikemen stand aside as the king yanks open a thick, iron-hinged door. Richard scurries inside and the pikemen clash their staves before I reach the door.

  “Let them in!” Richard calls, his voice fading and echoing in the chapel. “Let them all in!”

  The pikes part and I step through the open doorway.

  Richard runs through the knave of the sparse chapel, but I do not follow him. I draw up short just inside the doorway and am bumped from behind by Zhuri. He gasps and the sound echoes to the high ceiling.

  There is little to the chapel. Arched windows. Corbelled pillars. An ancient font. And, hanging from a cross above the altar, writhing and hissing and painted a hundred colors by stained-glass sunlight, is the queen of England.

  Anne of Bohemia, known as Good Queen Anne for her unwavering support of the common people, has been crucified.

  “Bring her down!” Richard shouts. “Bring her down!”

  Soldiers run to either side of the chancel and untie knots from two thick ropes coiled around iron brackets. The men, in groups of threes, slowly let out the ropes, grunting as they lower queen and cross to the flagstones.

  Queen Anne was a lovely thing when last I saw her. Soft-spoken and blonde, polite and pretty.

  She is still blonde.

  The queen shrieks and thrashes upon the cross. Her cries echo in the church like a Hellish choral solo. Bleeding boils mar her face. The skin of her fingers and forearms is completely black, as is the flesh around her lips. And her eyes are the soulless dark of eternal anguish. But someone has cared for her. Someone has dressed her in a shining dress of blue silk. Her hair has been plaited with meticulous patience, curled around her ears and wrapped in a brocaded veil.

  Richard gazes at her with adoration. I stumble back a step and recall Lord James of Dartford—a mad nobleman who removed his wife’s teeth and kept her tied to a wall with silk ribbons.

  “You are certain about this?” Richard asks me. “This cure?”

  “I will give my wife the very same cure,” I reply.

  There is no greater certainty than that.

  “This is a mistake!” Sir Simon shouts. “God is watching!”

  Tristan looks upward and waves. “Hello!”

  Feet shuffle on the flagstones behind me. Curious lords and ladies file into the chapel.

  Anne shrieks and lunges against the padded cords that bind her. The wooden cross rocks from side to side, drumming against the stones. Richard leans over his queen and hugs her waist, strokes the silk dress. “All is well, my puppy. All will be well.” He glances up at me. “How. . . how is it done?”

  I look to Zhuri.

  “Tip the ampoule into her mouth,” he says. “And hold her jaw so she cannot spit it out.”

  Richard studies Zhuri. I believe it is the first time he has noticed
the Moor. “Who in God’s Kingdom are you?”

  “I am a friend to Sir Edward, and to you, Your Highness.” He waves with exaggerated friendliness. “Hello!”

  “You are a Moor!”

  Zhuri feigns astonishment. “Allah be good! So I am.”

  Richard looks to me.

  I shrug. “So he is.”

  Sir Simon gestures angrily toward Zhuri. “Your Highness, he is a heathen!”

  “He may be an infidel,” Morgan replies, “but he’s no heathen.”

  Zhuri sighs. “Thank you for that fervent defense, Morgan. I feel much better.”

  “Do try to get your denominational insults straight, Simon,” Tristan adds.

  The king gives Zhuri a last look, then turns back to Queen Anne and places a hand behind her thrashing head. The tears shine in his eyes again. “Edward, if you bring back my wife, I will grant you anything you wish. Anything at all.”

  “I wish only that Good Queen Anne be returned to us,” I say. “So my king and the people of England can rejoice in the passing of her affliction.” I lick at my lips. “And, perhaps, some help reaching my own wife, Your Majesty.”

  Richard nods. “You shall have two hundred men at your disposal, Edward.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness.” With two hundred men, I will cut through Sir Gerald’s men like a spear through butter.

  “And I will make you the new marshal of England!” Richard stares at his wife and licks his lips. He studies the ampoule closely, then gazes again at his wife.

  “I helped him get that cure, Your Highness,” Tristan says.

  “You made me the marshal of England, Your Highness,” Simon interjects.

  Richard waves him off. “Everyone will be amply rewarded and happy. Now lend me some assistance!”

  I kneel next to the cross and hold Anne’s jaw. She bucks and howls, and her teeth snap shut, nearly catching my fingers. I take a long breath and look at Tristan, who looks back with wide eyes and shakes his head.

  “Hold her still!” Richard shouts.

  I take hold of her jaw again, carefully, and clamp a hand over her forehead. My palm slides on a bloody boil. Richard breaks the ceramic tip of the ampoule.

  Morgan’s deep voice booms from behind me. “‘We do this in your name, oh Lord. Our prayers of faith will save the one who is sick, and the Lord will raise her up.’ Amen.”

  Amens ripple through the crowd of onlookers. Some fall to their knees and hold clasped hands upward. These are the same lords and ladies who fornicated and gambled on the benches a short time ago. I can see the fear in their postures, in their expressions. If God can heal the afflicted, then He still watches over us. And if He still watches over us, what has He seen?

  “You do this in the name of God, do you?” Sir Simon sputters. “You practice sorcery and witchcraft in the name of the Lord?”

  “Do shut up, Simon,” Richard says. He motions to the guards and two of them take hold of Simon’s arms.

  “Your Majesty, this is a mistake!” Simon shouts.

  The king meets my gaze, takes a sharp breath, and tips the ampoule. A liquid the color of rust trickles into the queen’s open mouth. She makes a rasping sound and tries to shake her head, but I clamp her jaw closed. Anne thrashes wildly, burns me with the eternity of her eyes. Her skin blackens under my grip, but I do not let go. I watch her closely, until her throat pulses.

  She has swallowed it.

  “How long?” Richard says. “How long before I get her back?”

  “Thirty breaths,” Zhuri says. “Thirty breaths before it starts to work.”

  “Will. . . will those awful black marks heal? And the boils?”

  “They will, King Richard. I am told that she will bear scars where her skin has split, but most of the disfigurations will heal.”

  Richard clasps his hands and rocks. “I have been without her for over four months.”

  “More than,” says Zhuri.

  Richard stops rocking. “Sorry?”

  “He was agreeing, Your Highness.” I squint at Zhuri.

  We wait silently. And as we do, more and more people shuffle into the chapel. Word of the cure has spread. The men and women from the courtyard have come to witness the miracle of life. The resurrection of their queen.

  Richard rocks slowly. His trembling voice warbles out a song.

  “Nowel, nowel, nowel.” It resonates in the high-roofed chapel. “Out of your sleep arise and wake.”

  Ten breaths and no change.

  She strains and screams and snarls like a cornered wolf.

  Dear God, it won’t work. It won’t work and Richard will blame me. And a mad king’s blame is a terrible thing.

  “For God has made for mankind’s sake, all of a maid who makes me knell.”

  Another five breaths and still no change. I think of the alchemist’s wife, and the horror she had become. The sweat seeps along my hairline.

  “It hasn’t worked,” Sir Simon whispers. “You see, Your Majesty? These men are frauds. Only God may cure the plague.”

  But Richard does not seem to hear Simon’s words. He continues to rock, his eyes closed. “Of all the women she is the belle.”

  Queen Anne draws in a screeching breath. Her back arches.

  Richard opens his eyes and strokes her dress wildly. He looks to me, then Zhuri.

  The queen falls back onto the cross and her breathing grows softer, more rhythmic. Her eyes close, and the snarl she has worn since I set eyes upon her fades.

  Zhuri smiles.

  God is at work here. I am watching the invisible hand of God.

  Richard covers his mouth with trembling hand. “Oh my puppy! Oh my lovely Anne!”

  She opens her eyes and tilts her head so that she can see Richard. The black of her eyes lightens as I watch. Turns a dark, mottled crimson, then pink. A tear rolls down her cheek.

  Morgan falls to his knees beside me and prays. “‘Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivers us from them all.’”

  Richard places his hand behind his queen’s head and touches her forehead with his. “My puppy. My blue-eyed songbird.”

  “‘Bless the Lord, oh my soul,’” Morgan continues, “‘and forget not all His benefits, Who forgives all your iniquity, Who heals all your diseases.’”

  A trembling smile breaks upon the queen’s face. She tries to reach out to Richard but the padded bindings prevent her from touching him.

  Zhuri’s smile spans his face. “She will speak in a moment, like Morgan did.”

  Richard pulls back from her. Tears streak his face. “Speak puppy. Speak to me.”

  I look to Morgan. “Sorcery?”

  He shrugs. “God.”

  Tristan scoffs. “Science.”

  I look back to Richard.

  He is no longer smiling.

  A clump of the queen’s hair has fallen out and rests in his hand. He strokes at her head and more hair falls out. “What? What is this? Is it . . . normal?”

  A dark, heavy, cold thing tears at my heart.

  Zhuri’s smile fades. “I . . .”

  The skin of Anne’s face flushes red. Blood sprays from one of the boils and spatters Richard’s cheek. “What is happening? What is happening, Moor!”

  Anne arches her back, bucking against the cross, her screams are so powerful that the crowd backs toward the door. She laughs and spits a tooth at Richard. Blood drips from her mouth as more teeth sag and drop from her withering gums. Her breathing becomes a series of whooping gasps that end in laughter and another scream. She throws her head from side to side, banging it against the edges of the wooden cross and tearing great gashes in her cheeks. Hair falls away in great clumps, leaving only ragged patches and bloody streaks of scalp.

  “Stroke my cheek, Rithard!” her cries are low-pitched and rasping, her toothless mouth making her lisp. “Eat of my fleth, my lord!” She laughs, and her voice becomes soft and gentle. “Oh Rithard. How I have longed for your touch. Would you be a darling and brea
k my fingerth?” she giggles and runs her tongue along her lips. “Just one or two of them. I want to hear them thnap. I want to hear them thnap!”

  I am incapable of speech. I can only watch as her skin shrivels and blackens before my eyes.

  Richard stares at her without expression, draws a knife from his belt, and jabs it into her eye. I lurch backward, breathing in great gasps. Queen Anne shrieks and laughs and bucks upon the cross. The king rocks the blade back and forth, calmly, until she stops moving.

  “Merciful Allah!” Zhuri cries.

  Blood wells down to the wooden cross and dribbles onto the floor. Richard releases the knife, wipes blood from his hands gingerly, with his forefingers, and turns to look at me. I cannot return the stare. I can only look at the abomination that Queen Anne has become.

  “To be honest,” Tristan mumbles. “My role in finding that cure was rather insignificant.”

  “I told you!” Sir Simon shouts. The guards still hold him. “I warned you against this! ‘The grass withers, and the flower falls, but the word of the Lord remains forever!’”

  Richard stands and straightens his gambeson. He smiles at the soldiers and nobles behind him, but his eyes well with tears. His voice seems almost casual when he speaks.

  “Sir Simon, Edward was curious about legging.” He looks at me—a fury lurking behind the tears—smiles cordially and returns his attention to Simon. “Please take him below and educate him.”

  Hands grab my arms roughly and bring me to my feet. I scarcely notice. My thoughts are consumed with Elizabeth and the cure.

  It does not work.

  The cure does not work on women.

  EPISODE 4

  Chapter 19

  I find myself in the lower courtyard again, but I do not remember walking there.

  Thoughts of Elizabeth are a hood upon my mind, a visorless helm that turns the world black and washes all sound away. Two men have been healed by the Syrian tincture, and two women have been destroyed by it. It cannot be a coincidence.

  The cure does not work on women.

  We are taken to a stone building at the north end of the courtyard. Guards wave us through two iron-studded doors that lead into the prison chambers and down spiral stairs to the dungeon.