Pantaleon picks up his pace so he and the donkey are beside Morgan. “In village,” he says, “the rotters get the scare of you.”
“I don’t have the faintest idea what you are saying, Italian,” Morgan replies. “I never have the faintest idea what you are saying.”
Pantaleon touches the cross at Morgan’s neck. “This. The rotters do not like.”
Morgan glances down. “Course they don’t. It is made from the True Cross upon which Jesus was crucified. It is a powerful relic.”
Pantaleon crosses himself and grips the artifact between his thumb and forefinger. He gazes at it with reverence and whispers: “Perhaps this is the paid for me?”
“Perhaps bloody not!” Morgan yanks the cross out of the Italian’s hands.
I think for a moment on Morgan’s relic. Plaguers recoil from it, much as demons would. But if the afflicted are not demons, then why would they fear the power of Christ? Could they be possessed? Could the weakness of a plague-ravaged body allow evil spirits to enter?
I am a simple knight. Such questions are beyond my understanding. All I know is that both plague and possession can be cured by the phial that hangs around my neck.
Sometimes.
Zhuri peers at Morgan’s cross. “I have never understood the Christian fascination with objects.”
“They are not simply objects,” Morgan says. “They are objects that have come into contact with a saint or Christ, Himself. Can you imagine it? Christ’s body touched this. Our Lord and Savior’s flesh rested upon this wood.”
“And by touching Christ, the object has gained power?”
“You have witnessed the power of this cross, Zhuri. You have seen evil turn away from it.”
Not even Tristan can argue. We have all seen the power of Morgan’s relic.
“And there are many relics?” Zhuri asks.
“There are. I have seen dozens of them in churches and cathedrals. An iron nail that was used in Christ’s crucifixion. A phial containing the breast milk of the Virgin Mary. The finger bone of Saint Benedict. The head of Saint John the Baptist. Every church must have a relic before it can be consecrated.”
“Which of John the Baptist’s heads did you see?” Tristan asks. “There are two, aren’t there?”
“The one in France is a fake,” Morgan growls.
“Maybe there is one John the Baptist head for each Pope,” Tristan says. “And if you don’t mind my saying, Christ must have been absolutely studded upon that cross. I have seen at least fifteen nails that were said to have been used in his crucifixion.”
“I pity you, Tristan,” Morgan replies. “You will never know the warmth and the strength that comes with true faith.”
“All I need is the warmth of a woman’s body,” he replies. “And the strength of her legs around my waist.”
“Your ceaseless mockery hides a fearful heart,” Morgan replies.
We walk in silence for a time, and I think of Elizabeth. She owns a relic—a brush once owned by Saint Agatha, who was imprisoned in a brothel. I chided Elizabeth once, telling her it never belonged to Agatha, that it was just a whore’s ancient brush. She chided back, asking me how I know what a whore’s brush looks like. So I reminded her that we both watched John of Gaunt’s wife brush her hair once. She feigned indignation at my insolence, but she could not hide her smile. I think about that smile now, a hundred miles from home, and I cannot help but smile too.
Morgan holds the cross in his fingers and breaks the silence. “When I am back home, I will have a beautiful reliquary made for this.”
“Reliquary?” Zhuri asks.
Morgan nods. “A case built to house artifacts like this one. Usually made from precious metals.”
“Artifacts such as this one,” Zhuri replies.
Morgan does not acknowledge the correction. “Often the shape of the reliquary indicates what is inside. For this cross, I will make a case of gilded gold, in the form of a crucifix. I have seen all manner of shapes for reliquaries. If someone possesses a saint’s toe, then the reliquary might be shaped like a foot. A skull might be housed in a case shaped like the saint’s head. Do you see?”
Zhuri nods. “I have seen such things.”
“Morgan?” Tristan says.
“What is it?” Morgan snaps.
“What shape was the reliquary that held Mary’s breast milk?”
Chapter 32
Clouds march across the sky as we continue our journey to Stowmarket. We find a wagon trail leading westward and I decide to follow it. No doubt it will take us where we want to go, and I do not think anyone but Henry’s men will be near.
It takes another two hours to reach the outskirts of the town, where we see the first of Henry Bolingbroke’s perimeter forces. A dozen men in brigandine sit around a pair of cooking fires, the steel squares sewn into their jerkins almost black in the cloudy afternoon. Some of the men wear the Duke of Hereford’s livery. Henry is Richard’s cousin, so the two men share almost identical coats of arms—lions and fleurs-de-lis. The only difference of note is that Richard’s coat of arms bears a cross, while Henry’s does not. It is a heraldic irony, because Henry is the more devout of the two.
The men pick up spears and long axes from the grass and rise slowly when they see us. We meet on the road. One man, clean shaven and straight-shouldered, glances at the cannon jutting from my shoulder sack. “Are you Richard’s men?” he asks.
“We’re Richard’s enemies,” I reply. “And we need to speak with Henry Bolingbroke.”
He glances past me as I speak and his face brightens. “Tristan! Tristan of Rye!”
Tristan steps forward and smiles. “John Langham. I was hoping you were dead.”
They grasp hands as John laughs. “I’ll live long enough to see you get what you deserve, you caitiff.”
“Justice,” Pantaleon mutters.
“What brings you to East Anglia, John?” Tristan asks. “Did the reeves chase you out of Sussex?”
“No, sir. Henry Bolingbroke did. Thousands of men have joined him. He’s going to bring order to England. King Richard has abandoned God. And so God has abandoned England. But Henry, he’s got the Lord’s ear. Christ wants him to be king.”
“Did you hear that, Morgan?” Tristan says. “Henry Bolingbroke has the Lord’s ear. I wonder if he keeps it in a reliquary made of wax?”
“Where can we find Henry?” I say. “It’s urgent that we speak with him.”
John Langham points westward down the road. “Half-mile down the road, in town.”
“Thank you.” I brush past him. The others rush to keep up with me.
“Farewell, John.” Tristan grins at the soldier. “A word of warning, I’m going to kill you the next time I see you.”
“A word of warning,” John shouts back, “Henry will probably kill you first.”
Stowmarket is a sprawling town, nestled against a forest and bordered on two sides by rivers. I know that one of the rivers is called the Gipping. I do not know the name of the other, and I do not care to know it. Richard is marching toward Elizabeth, and my only concern is finding horses so I reach her first.
“Can you imagine that?” Tristan says. “An army following little Henry Bolingbroke. Who would have imagined such a thing?”
“You do not think he should lead an army?” Zhuri asks. “Is he a bad man?”
“Not bad at all,” Tristan replies. “Nice enough lad, and a fierce fighter. But he’s pious and boring and a little dour. A bit like Morgan, really.”
“Men will follow anyone,” I say.
Morgan looks at me, then at Tristan. “I can’t tell if I’m being insulted by one or both of you.”
“We find the army.” Pantaleon points ahead of us, toward a field beside the Gipping.
Hundreds of tents and pavilions are set up just outside of the town. But no one moves among them. Not a single soldier, priest or farmer.
“We have found their camp,” Tristan says. “Still no sign of an army.”
> I search the field as we walk closer but cannot see a soul.
“What did that soldier mean when he said Henry would probably kill you first?” Morgan asks, his voice soft, almost reverential.
“He was trying to show wit,” Tristan replies. “But you need to have wit if you are to show it.”
“Maybe he . . . Maybe . . .” Morgan stares at the empty field and shrugs.
“I hope you’re not implying that Henry Bolingbroke and his army are plagued,” Tristan replies.
“You said you’d seen a plaguer bishop,” Morgan snaps. “Hugh the Baptist, that was his name, wasn’t it? So why couldn’t there be a plaguer duke?”
“Stop talking foolishness,” I reply. The scent of roasting meat drifts in the air. A good sign. I have yet to meet a plaguer that cooks its food. Although, the meat does not smell very appetizing.
We walk through the village of tents. Past racks bearing armor and spears and poleaxes. Past iron tripods supporting kettles over cold firepits. It is an absurd thought, that a plagued duke could lead an army. But where could Henry have gone? My heart pounds, not with the thought that Henry might have the plague, but with the possibility that there may not be horses in Stowmarket.
A stout wooden bridge leads across the Gipping. No one stands guard. We walk across it, the donkey’s hooves clattering over the planks. I rest my hand on the pommel of my sword, letting my finger trace the bump of Saint Giles’s tooth in the grip.
Without warning, the ghostly strains of a distant choir break the silence. Voices in harmony, raised toward God. There is no sound like it in all the world. Mortal voices uniting to create something immortal. Something that cannot be of this earth. Something that touches the soul of anyone who hears it. Something that proves the existence of God.
We pass a line of hedges and all of us draw up short and stare.
Tristan lets out a long breath. “There is no God.”
On either side of us, in piles as wide as small churches and high as my waist, lie stacks of smoldering dead. Twisted piles of blackened bones that still simmer and seethe. Dark blue smoke curls toward the Heavens like the sluggish emigration of angry souls.
I know now why I smelled roasting meat.
There is no difference between the bones of the afflicted and the healthy, so I can only imagine that these poor souls had the plague. I do not dare to think of the other possibility. We stare at the charred bodies for a long time while the Heavenly voices swell, stop with perfect precision, then begin again toward a new refrain.
Something hard forms in my chest, somewhere between my sternum and throat. Perhaps the last of my soul has hardened and died. Zhuri covers his eyes with a hand, and I know he struggles against tears. He and the sisters at Hedingham burned scores of plaguers that had gathered around the walls of the convent.
“Let’s find the horses and get out of Stowmarket,” I say.
The song of the choir grows louder as we trudge closer to the town center. I wonder how many families lie in those smoldering piles. How many of those bones belong to children. I tap my breastplate so I can feel Elizabeth’s cure against my chest and walk faster.
Three bodies hang by the neck from a tall oak a short distance away. Two men and a woman. The piles of burning dead were likely plagued, but I am certain that these three were not afflicted. I stare at them as I pass.
The singing comes from a church, of course, a long, stone building with the typical Norman tower and walls strewn with flint. Hundreds of men—perhaps thousands—kneel in the churchyard. They are crammed into every open space. More men gather at the doorway. I can only imagine how crowded it must be inside the church itself.
We walk through an open gate of wrought iron and pick our way through kneeling men.
“Kneel, sirs!” A man whispers to us.
“You have to take a knee, my lord,” another hisses.
I do not have time to take a knee. Richard’s army must surely have left Framlingham by now. And we are still ten miles from St. Edmund’s Bury.
I shove past a man on the carved wooden porch and push into the church. The echoing voices in the choir strike me like a crash of warm water, set my bones trembling. The singers are above us, in the gallery. And before us, kneeling at every pew, are soldiers and priests.
Up by the altar, two knights in full harness hold a man’s head in a barrel. The man’s struggles make water from the barrel slosh onto the floor. Four priests, standing behind the knights, chant toward the drowning man, reading words from Bibles.
And, behind the knights and priests, hanging by a rope tied around her neck, is a woman. She gags and kicks violently, the noose slowly crushing the life from her.
“What is happening here?” I shout.
A priest kneeling by the door hisses at me. “Silence! And kneel! Kneel, or you’ll spoil the ceremony!”
“What ceremony?”
“An exorcism!” The priest’s head jerks to one side in what I can only imagine is a tic. “They are removing the demons from the afflicted man. Now kneel! Before it’s too late!”
“Exorcisms,” Tristan says, “look exactly like drownings.” He glances above the altar. “What about the woman? Is she part of the ceremony?”
“Don’t be a fool,” the priest says, his head jerking again. “The death of a heretic gives power to exorcisms.”
“Has she done anything wrong?” I ask. “Or did you simply pick her at random?”
“Of course she’s done wrong!” The priest snaps. “She’s an alchemist.”
It takes a heartbeat for the words to settle on us.
We drop our packs, as one, and sprint down the aisle.
“Stop!” My words echo, and clash with the choir’s song. “Take her down! Take her down!”
The knights at the barrel pull the plaguer’s head out in a spray of water. They look to us without releasing their hold. One of the priests stops chanting and another urges him to continue by glaring and chanting more loudly.
Two men wearing the arms of Hereford rise and block our approach to the altar. “Halt!” one shouts. “You must kneel and be silent!”
A priest on the foremost pew rises. “They’ll ruin it! They’ll ruin it!”
“You have to cut her down!” I bellow.
The hanging woman’s legs kick with less vigor.
One of Henry’s men drives a shoulder into me, knocking me back into Tristan.
“By order of Henry, Duke of Hereford, I command you to kneel and shut your bloody mouth!”
I crouch and prepare to leap at the man.
“Edward!” Morgan shouts. “This is a church! It is forbidden!”
Necessitas non habet legem.
I lunge and grab the man by the hair, swing him sideways. He topples into the pew, knocking two kneeling men to the ground. Tristan and Pantaleon work together to shove the other guard into the pews on the far side of the aisle. And we run toward the altar.
Soldiers rise to their feet. The knights at the barrel look to the priests, who shake their heads and continue chanting. The plaguer’s head is shoved back into the barrel and both knights and priests watch as we stream past. Tristan leaps, landing on his stomach upon the altar stone. But the altar cloth slides across the polished granite, and he crashes to the floor in a rattle of plates, on the opposite side.
“That hurt,” Tristan calls from behind the altar. “A lot.”
Henry’s men are back on their feet and running toward us.
“Stop them!” one of the men shouts to the soldiers in the pew. “Stop them!”
I lean against the altar and Pantaleon boosts me up, muttering something about “. . . the paid . . . .” The woman’s feet are twitching. She hangs limply from the rope. I hug her legs and lift, putting slack into the rope.
Please don’t die.
Morgan, Zhuri, and Pantaleon shove at soldiers as they approach.
“Please,” Morgan shouts. “Please, we do not want any more violence. This is a church!”
&nb
sp; But there are too many soldiers in the church. They swarm my companions. Tristan leaps to his feet with a flourish and throws himself at the crowd, shouting, “Hallelujah!” He knocks a half dozen of them to the ground.
The voices of the choir surge, as if trying to drown out our screams. The four priests shout their prayers as loudly as they can. One of Henry’s men screams instructions to the soldiers. A dog howls somewhere outside the church. This is what a festival in Hell would sound like. I brace my feet firmly on the altar and grip the woman more tightly.
Please don’t die.
The other end of the rope runs the length of the church and is tied to the gallery’s railing. “Morgan!” I shout. “Get to the gallery! Get to the gallery and cut the rope!
Two soldiers grab at my legs.
“She’s a heretic!” one of them shouts. “Let her go!”
I kick at the two men.
“Take him down!” Henry’s man shouts. “Take him down!”
More soldiers clutch at me. Arms encircle my legs. I howl at them, insensible words. One of my legs buckles and I dip. The rope goes taut. “Get off me!” The words are ripped from my throat. “Get off me!”
They pull my legs off the altar, and I am forced to release the woman. I fall onto my breastplate, the metal cracking against granite. The woman’s feet wave madly above my head. I reach toward her helplessly. “Get off me!” My finger brushes her heel. “Get off me! In the name of Christ, let me go!”
Arms grab my waist and yank. I grip the edge of the altar so they cannot pull me away. A dozen hands take hold of my legs. They pull with all their strength. The altar tips backward an inch.
A soldier runs to the front of the altar and draws a dagger.
“She’s our only hope!” I shout.
The soldier raises the dagger over one of my gauntleted hands.
“Don’t!” I bellow. “Don’t!”
The man snarls, tenses and—
“Let him go.”
The voice is calm, but loud, and it has an immediate effect.
The choir goes silent. The priests stop chanting one by one. Soldiers grow silent and look toward the pews. The soldier in front of me lowers his dagger and looks back.
Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) Page 19