Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3)

  Zhuri folds his arms. “The village of Wickham Market is fortunate to have such an astute mayor.”

  Martin roars with laughter. “A servant with a sense of humor. Such wit for an attendant. You’re an Arab, aren’t you? What in God’s name are you doing here?”

  “I’m a Moor,” Zhuri replies. “And I ask myself that question every day. I can only assume that Allah wanted me to suffer before sending me to Jannah.”

  I clear my throat loudly. “Martin, can you tell me where I may find horses?”

  “A Moor!” Martin says it as if a unicorn stands before him instead of Zhuri. “But Sir John said you were called Peter?”

  Zhuri looks to me, then clears his throat. “That is the name I have assumed.”

  “Assumed?” The mayor waves a finger at Zhuri. “I understand! Very clever. Less problems for a Moor in England if he has an English name. But you speak well! I’m not talking too quickly for you am I?”

  “Fewer,” Zhuri replies. “Fewer problems for a Moor in England. No, you are not speaking too quickly.”

  Martin roars with laughter again. He is a cheerful, jiggling, blustery man, this mayor. “He corrected my English!” He turns and shouts to the crowd. “A Moor corrected my English!”

  “It loses its charm,” Morgan says.

  King Richard is assembling an army to kill my wife, and this mayor prattles on about everything except what I need. “Horses.” I try to keep my voice level. “Where can I get horses?”

  Martin coughs out a few more guffaws, takes a deep breath, and shrugs with extravagance. “Nowhere in the village, Sir John. There are three horses in Wickham Market today. And not one of them is for sale. I might be able to find you a goat, though. How about a nice nanny goat? Two years old and full of vigor. A fine animal. Damn fine animal. I’d let you have it for one of those nobles. And sweeten the deal with a dozen of my finest candles.”

  “You can’t ride goats,” I say.

  “Can’t ride cows, either,” Tristan replies. “But I understand people do it.”

  I give Tristan a sharp glance then turn back to the mayor. “Can you take me to the owners of those three horses? Perhaps I can persuade them.”

  Martin shakes his head, which makes his jowls quiver. “I doubt very much they can be persuaded. Doubt it very much.”

  “Anyone can be persuaded,” I say. “Every man has something they want dearly.”

  “And these days, that something is horses.” Martin points behind me. “Horses are a sensitive subject these days in Wickham Market, Sir John. But you are welcome to ask the owners yourself. They are walking this way.”

  I turn to look, and gasp. My hand flies to the grip of my sword.

  Tristan hunches down, his armor rattling.

  A dozen men in mail walk toward us.

  “Soldiers need their horses more than ever these days.” Martin continues speaking, but I cannot hear him clearly, because the words he spoke earlier ring in my ears.

  The Lord gives us trials and trials and trials.

  The oncoming soldiers wear tabards over their mail. And emblazoned on the bright blue linen, are the lion and lily of King Richard.

  I cannot give these men what they want, because what they want is me.

  Hallelujah.

  Chapter 26

  I back away from the approaching soldiers. Tristan and the others do the same. We exchange looks, and I shake my head. Even with surprise we cannot defeat a dozen men in mail.

  Martin gives me a bemused smile. “Are you afraid of metal? Those are the king’s men. Here to protect us and to shower us with Richard’s wisdom and glory!”

  One of the soldiers wears a thick breastplate and a blue cape trimmed in silver. A knight. He walks toward me, and does not stop until he is close enough that I can smell the mead on his breath. “What’s this then?” he asks.

  “Visitors, Sir George,” Martin replies. “They’re going to buy Henry’s goat. That one’s a leper and the other one is an Italian named Leon. They traveled here to Wickham Market for the trial, and to spend God’s good coin.” He winks at me.

  “I’m not a leper,” Morgan says.

  Sir George looks at me again, then at Tristan. “So, what are the knights for?”

  “Sleeping,” the mayor replies. “Looking at the stars and listening to the chirp of insects. Stop being so suspicious. Just because you keep the lands of Wickham Market free of plague, Sir George, does not mean that plague cannot flourish elsewhere. Good men need strong swords at their sides when they travel these days. Now be off, good sir, and take your men with you. One of these knights is going to help us with the anathema, and we have work to do.”

  Sir George stares into my face, and I stare back. I have seen him before, but I cannot remember where. There is recognition in his eyes too, but I do not think he can place me either.

  “My name is Sir John.” I hold out the pouch that holds the four nobles. “I’d like to buy your horses.”

  Sir George glances at the pouch. “Our horses aren’t for sale.”

  “There are four gold nobles in that pouch,” I say. “We also have a donkey and a paste that will cure any injury.”

  “I may not have made myself clear.” Sir George’s voice holds a hint of anger. “Our horses are not for sale.”

  “And I may not have made myself clear.” Anger seeps into my voice as well. I step closer to the knight and my breastplate taps his. “My wife needs me. If I don’t—”

  “Step away from me, sir!” George’s hand touches the hilt of his sword. His soldiers crowd around me. “Our horses are needed here, to keep this village clear of plague. And that is the end of our discussion. Wickham Market is a lawful village. I make certain that it remains so.” He lays his finger on my breastplate. “I trust you and your men will respect that.”

  Tristan and Morgan push their way through the soldiers so that each stands at one of my shoulders.

  “We will cause no trouble, Sir George,” Morgan says.

  Tristan points toward the iron gibbet hanging from the distant tree. “Is that how you keep order in Wickham Market? Is that your work, Sir George?”

  “That is the Lord’s work.” George keeps his eyes on mine. “That sinner has been rotting in there for too long. It’s time to put some new blood in the gibbet.”

  “He must have committed a great crime indeed,” Tristan says. “What did he do? Ask to buy a mule?”

  “The official charge is ‘offensa cujus nominatio crimen est,’” George replies. He turns to his men and waves them forward. The soldiers pass us in a long column, some drinking from wooden mugs, some eating bread or oily chicken, and all casting long looks at me and my companions. Sir George addresses Martin before he leaves. “I’ll return for the anathema. I pray your guests behave themselves.” He looks toward the gibbet and the rotting skeleton inside, then meets my gaze. “A lawful village.”

  George walks off, along the edge of the crowd and down the road branching away from the church. I watch, hand still on my sword grip, as they depart. Is it possible that they have not heard about us? If Richard sent a message, he would have described us as unarmored men, so Tristan and I might escape notice. But there is no way they could miss Zhuri. A Moor in England stands out like amber among glass.

  “Offensa cujus . . .” Tristan squints as he tries to work it out.

  “It means buggery.” The mayor shrugs and watches Sir George and his men. “The man was put in there for buggery. Cows and a horse.”

  Tristan snorts, a short, violent sound. “Did you hear that?” he barks another laugh. “He’s in there for . . . he . . . cows . . . and a horse . . . in the filthy canal . . .” He snorts again, but no one joins him. “Offensa cujus nomin . . .” He clears his throat, dons a more sober expression, and watches the departing soldiers.

  “Sir George means no offense,” Martin says. “We had a bit of trouble a week ago. A band of knights. It was not a pleasant day. George lost eight of his men. They were after horses
and food.”

  “Did they serve anyone?” I ask. “Where did they come from?”

  Martin shrugs. “We didn’t recognize the device. Three cocks. They all had them.”

  “Lucky bastards!” Tristan says.

  Zhuri chuckles and Martin, realizing the joke, laughs as well.

  I do not laugh. Morgan and I exchange glances. Three roosters. Gerald of Thunresleam.

  Martin wipes at his eyes, but his laughter trails off when he sees my expression “Smile, Sir John. In these terrible days, cheerfulness is our duty. The good Lord says, ‘A joyful heart is the best of medicine.’”

  “The good Lord is absolutely right,” Tristan says. “I try to eat one or two joyful hearts a day.”

  They laugh again, all of them. Even Morgan chuckles, after calling Tristan a fool. But I cannot laugh. Because Sir Gerald’s men have been here, and they might still be near.

  “Have Sir George and his men been at Wickham Market long?” I ask.

  “Weeks,” Martin replies. “They helped clear the plague from around our village. And they continue to do so.”

  “They haven’t been to Framlingham?” I ask. “And no one from Framlingham has come here?”

  “Not since shortly after the knights attacked. King Richard declined to provide any payment to compensate the families of the men killed by those knights. And he also declined to give George more men to replace the ones lost. Our wise and glorious king sits in his castle, and some say he has no care for the rest of his kingdom. His men kill or drive off any commoners that seek refuge at Framlingham. I do not think Sir George is overly fond of our king, and I cannot blame him. But I will deny it to my death if you repeat that. To my death!”

  A wagon, pulled by two oxen, rattles down the crossing road toward us. Five men sit inside, two of them priests. It seems like some sort of bizarre ceremony held in honor of the trial, because four pigs on lead ropes trot ahead of the wagon, and one of the priests tosses what looks like cuts of meat from a basket onto the road behind.

  “What, exactly, is happening there?” Tristan asks.

  “The trial is beginning,” Martin replies, scowling. “Justice comes this way.”

  The wagon rumbles past the church and stops beside the wooden platform. The five men step down, one at a time. Martin leads us to one side of the crowd, so we can see the wagon and the front of the platform clearly.

  “What crime is being tried?” Morgan asks.

  “Murder,” Martin replies. “Savages from our village killed a little girl. They tortured her. Tore her face off and left her to die.”

  “Why would they do such a thing?” Zhuri asks.

  “Because they are monsters,” Martin replies. “Brothers, all of them. Grew up here, in Wickham Market, with good, law-abiding parents. But there was always something evil in their eyes. I knew they would bring grief to this village one day, and a fortnight ago, they did.”

  Morgan makes the sign of the cross in the air. “‘May we be delivered from wicked and evil men. For not all have faith.’”

  “You wanted me to help with something,” I say to Martin. “Is my help worth even one horse?”

  Martin shrugs. “I would give you a dozen horses if I had them, but I do not, Sir John. If you help me with the next trial, I will have a word in the ear of Sir George.”

  “You would do that?” I ask.

  “I would. No promises, of course. No promises at all. Sir George of Brighthelmstone is a man of principle. It is difficult to change his mind.”

  I nod my thanks, but I am not hopeful. We should leave the village. Search for horses somewhere else. But finding horses is like finding buried treasure these days. And I know there is treasure here in this village. Shining treasure with hooves and manes. Stealing is a sin, but the hunger in my stomach burns brighter than salvation. Sir George’s instincts about me were correct. I will have those horses. There will be time for penance later.

  The priest leads the three men to a bench at the foot of the platform. All of them take a seat next to a man and woman who hold hands.

  “Shouldn’t the brothers be bound?” Morgan asks. “If things go badly for them, they’re likely to flee.”

  Martin tilts his head and squints at Morgan. “Those three men are not the brothers. They are the councilmen who will rule on the case.”

  “Where are the accused then?” I ask. “Shouldn’t they be present?”

  “But, they are present.” The mayor points to the left of the platform. “There. Those four over there.”

  A half-dozen men stand where Martin points, but I cannot decide which ones are the accused. The wagon stands behind the men and I briefly consider making an offer on the oxen. But oxen are slow. Far too slow to beat Richard’s army to St. Edmund’s Bury.

  “Will the brothers be brought onto the platform now?” Morgan asks.

  “The attorney might put one or two of them up there,” Martin says. “But certainly not all four.”

  “They should all be allowed to face their accusers,” Morgan says.

  “Don’t be absurd.” Martin laughs, his thick, thundery laugh. “It would be impossible to keep order. You can’t put four pigs on a stage.”

  Chapter 27

  Pigs are on trial.

  It should not come as a surprise. Trials like these occur from time to time in villages and towns, mostly in France, but we English are not above them. A dog on trial for killing sheep. A horse for trampling a man. A cow for kicking a child. I never understood such proceedings. Father Aubrey tried to explain it once. He said that trials of this sort are a way of mourning, a means of coping with tragedy. That animals are put on trial so that men and women can bring order and justice to a senseless and random event.

  I have never believed that.

  In my younger days, I thought animal trials were a reflex of anger. Like a man kicking a rock that he stubs his toe upon. But age has given me insights into the motivations of men. I now believe that animals are put on trial because sometimes they do not know their place. They forget, sometimes, the hierarchy of God’s creatures. And nothing enrages a man—or terrifies him—so much as an inferior rising above his station. This is why the Peasant Revolt has reverberated across the world. This is why men accused of treason are publicly beheaded. This is why men like Saint Thomas Beckett are murdered.

  Animals are the most inferior of the inferiors, so they are tried and executed, and man ascertains maintains his moral, spiritual, and physical superiority.

  But I am not interested in superiority of any sort right now. I need horses, not absurdity.

  Martin excuses himself and makes his way to the platform, where he announces the trial and relinquishes the stage to the attorney. The attorney, a young man with a trimmed mustache and a pointed beard, describes the events of the crime.

  “On July 8, in the year 1385, upon the feast day of Saint Withburga, five pigs entered into the home of Reginald Fynch, a cowherd on a farm in the village of Wickham Market, and of his wife, Elenor. The five pigs encountered six-year-old Basilia Fynch inside and set upon her with furiosity, eating the face and neck of the said child, who, in consequence of the bites and defacements inflicted by the said pigs, departed this life.”

  The woman on the bench, Elenor apparently, sobs and covers her face. The man beside her—Reginald, I assume—puts an arm around her shoulders, the muscles of his jaw flexing.

  The attorney recounts the despair and rage that Reginald Fynch suffered upon entering the home. A rage so powerful that the man killed one of the five pigs with his bare hands. It is, the attorney adds, the remains of this dead pig that the priest was scattering on the roadside “to rot and putrefy and to never enter a human body.”

  Two witnesses are called to the stage. The first is Reginald Fynch himself, who testifies angrily that the pigs tethered to the wagon are, indeed, the ones he saw in the house, tearing at his daughter’s flesh. The second witness is a man named Salomon Daye, a bread maker who rushed to the Fynch home w
hen he heard Reginald’s screams and saw the very same pigs there.

  Martin returns to us as Salamon testifies. The mayor watches the proceedings for a time, then sighs heavily. “We have but one attorney in the village,” he says. “So the pigs are being defended by a church clerk.”

  “A church clerk?” Morgan says. “That is hardly a fair defense.”

  Martin shrugs. “We do what we can in these dark times.” He pats me on the shoulder. “But we have Sir John now. And he will defend the accused in the next trial.”

  “Defend the accused?” I shake my head. “I am no attorney, Martin.”

  “You do not wish to help us rid the world of this foul plague?”

  “And how, exactly, will defending a criminal do that?”

  “You are not defending a criminal,” Martin replies. “You are taking part in a solemn ceremony and trial. An anathema. We are going to excommunicate the plague.”

  I stare at him for a long moment. He clears his throat. “We posted notices in churches throughout Suffolk, asking the afflicted to come and be judged. And come they have! Did you see the plagued men and women at the gate? They all showed up for the trial. A few at a time. We’ve been keeping them here as they present themselves. They will be tried under God, Sir John. Under God! The priests say they must be defended properly in the trial or the anathema will not work. And you are a lord, well-versed in the law.” He frowns. “Where is it that you come from?”

  “You want to excommunicate a plague?” I ask. “Are you mad?” I say the words, knowing he is not. Or if he is, it is a common madness. Like animal trials, I have heard of anathemas. They are curses, cast against creatures that cannot take the sacrament, and so cannot be officially excommunicated.

  Locust swarms, hives of rats, flies, even worms and weevils are said to be cast away or killed outright by these curses. I once witnessed an anathema trial against caterpillars, with one of the caterpillars present, and it made today’s pig trial seem solemn by comparison. Yet another anathema, in France, was directed at pigeons that made too much noise outside the church during mass. The curse was so effective, it is said, that it reaped an unintended consequence: to this day, any pigeon that flies within five feet of the church falls dead. I laughed when I heard the tale, but a priest told it to me, and who am I to doubt the veracity of God’s servants?