She holds out her hand. “Show it to me, my lord.”
I draw the extra cure from my pouch and place it in her palm. She holds it close to her eyes and rolls the ampoule. “There.” She holds it up to me. “See the circle and dot? Next to the words for dragon blood?”
“Stop playing games, girl,” Morgan says. “That writing is Arabic. How could you know the words for dragon blood in Arabic?”
“I don’t,” she replies. “But I know the word blood. And it only appears on the ampoule once. I’m better with Arabic numbers than letters, but I know some words. My father made me learn a little of the language so I could help. Most of the best writings on alch . . . ah . . . medicines come from the Muslims.”
“I could teach you to read in Arabic.” Zhuri averts his eyes when she looks toward him. “If . . . if you wanted.”
Josalyn rubs a strand of her hair between thumb and forefinger. “I would like that. Very much.”
I wave my hand between them. “You are saying that we can cure twenty-five thousand people with a gill of dragon blood?”
She smiles at Zhuri and blushes, turns to face me. “A little less I think. But yes.”
Twenty-five thousand is more than I ever dreamed we could cure. And yet, all I can think about are the tens of thousands that will not be cured because of our mistake.
We held life in our hands.
I let my gaze fall upon the shards of broken glass among the white stones and close my eyes when I cannot bear to look anymore.
Chapter 36
Zhuri decides to stay with Josalyn. He tells me he will travel with Lord Henry’s army and rejoin us at St. Edmund’s.
“Her father has many papers in Arabic and Hebrew,” he says. “She may need to consult them and I am the only one who speaks those languages. I want nothing more than to continue my journey with you, but I must make this sacrifice. For the cure. For England and for Spain.”
It is a good pretense. I almost believe him.
We leave him with the girl and her two guards, in the spice seller’s cottage, and return to the church. The three Italian soldiers follow, chattering to Pantaleon.
Henry Bolingbroke waits in the churchyard, a gaggle of priests fluttering and squawking around him. Four chestnut palfreys have been saddled and hitched to the gate that borders the church.
The priests grow silent when we approach. I spot Father Benjamin among the white-robed clergy. He sneers in a most unchristian manner and I turn the other cheek of my arse to him as I push in beside Henry.
“I had them pack salted cod and dried hare in the saddlebags,” the duke says. “And two skins of wine.”
I nod my thanks. “You have done much for me, Lord Henry. And yet, I will ask one more favor, if I may.”
Henry crosses his arms and nods for me to continue.
“An enemy waits for me at St. Edmund’s Bury,” I say.
“I thought you could beat Richard there if I gave you horses,” he replies.
“Another enemy,” I say. “A knight with a small army. He has vowed to kill me.”
“Is there anyone in England who does not want you dead, Sir Edward?”
I scratch at my chin and smile. “There’s an archer and his wife, in Norfolk.” My smile fades. “But they might want to kill me too.”
I think about the bowman in the mill, the one who helped us escape Sir Gerald. I wonder if the cure I left healed their son or turned him into a monster. Life or death. Heaven or Hell. The world forever hinges on two opposite outcomes. And now, my journey hinges on Lord Henry’s answer to my next request. “I could use some men. Two hundred would likely be enough.”
The duke studies me for a time. Father Benjamin whispers something and Henry nods.
“I’m sorry Edward,” he says. “I am in a difficult position. The king banished me, and I was not supposed to return for another eight years. Many would think me unlawful for returning, and for raising an army.” He looks into my eyes. “You don’t think I’m being unlawful, do you, Edward?”
“No,” I reply. “I think you are trying to save your nobility, and to help England recover from this affliction.”
He smiles broadly, claps my shoulder. “I’m pleased you see it that way. Sadly, the only way to prove my intent is to offer no strife. To anyone.”
Father Benjamin crosses himself. “The last thing the duke needs is to have his men slaughtering other knights,” he hisses. “If he chooses to attack the licentious King Richard, he is justified. Otherwise, we shall raise arms against no one. This is a mission of peace.”
“A mission of peace?” Tristan barks back. “You’re leaving smoldering piles of plaguers in your wake. Hanged men and women dot the countryside like wind chimes because of your peaceful mission.”
“Heretics and demons must be destroyed,” the priest replies. “If it was up to me, you and—”
“Enough!” Henry snaps. “Just stop it. Both of you.” He turns to face me. “I cannot send men from my army to fight other Englishmen, Edward. I am sorry.”
A silence settles as I consider my next argument, and in that silence, Pantaleon and the Italians laugh.
One of the men shouts, “Avreste dovuto vedere la sua faccia!” The five kinsmen burst into laughter again.
Henry points at Pantaleon. “Is he your man?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure. I think he’s just traveling with us.”
“But he speaks Italian?”
“Many Italians do.” The disappointment makes me surly.
Father Benjamin scowls at me.
Henry nods curtly. “I think I may have a solution to your problem.”
There are ten Italians in Henry’s camp—the remnants of a mercenary company that left France with the duke. They wear brigandine armor—knee-length leather jerkins sewn with overlapping metal plates—and white, padded tunics with the red cross of Saint George upon them. Steel greaves and lobstered metal shoes protect their legs.
I have faced such men in battle many times. Genoese crossbowmen. Once, these soldiers were considered the most dangerous warriors in Europe. Companies of these men can unleash a hail of deadly shafts from three hundred paces—a hail that burns through men, and punches through metal as easily as flesh.
“Those crossbows will make quick work of Gerald,” Zhuri says.
“Terrible weapons,” Morgan adds. “Do you know the Church once outlawed crossbows? The Pope felt the wounds they caused were too hideous. ‘Hateful to God and unfit for Christians.’ That’s what he said.”
“They weren’t so hateful or unfit during the Crusades,” Tristan adds. “The Pope was quite happy to let our Crusaders use them against Muslims.”
“That is because we are irrelevant,” Zhuri replies.
“I never said that,” Morgan replies.
Tristan smirks. “So, are you calling these Genoese soldiers hateful to God, Morgan?”
“I won’t take part in a conversation where my words are constantly twisted.”
I walk down the line of crossbowmen, inspecting them as the others continue to prattle.
Our armies were terrified of the Genoese for decades. Until the Black Prince fought a battle in a place called Crecy. On that rainy day, wet bowstrings and poor tactics by the French rendered the Italians ineffective to the point of disaster. And, on that blessed day, the English archers, with their six-foot war bows, emerged as the most feared soldiers in Europe.
The French hold such a fear of our archers, now, that they cut off the first two fingers of every captured English bowman. This ensures that our men will never draw a bow again. It is a custom that does not sit well on our side of the Channel. Whenever French and English armies meet for battle, our archers hold up two fingers, nails out, to show they are still capable of putting an ash shaft through a French heart. The gesture has become the worst of insults.
I study the Italians standing in two ranks before me. They may not be English archers, and there may only be ten of them, but Genoese crossbowmen are a
great asset.
“If only we had another fifty,” I murmur.
Tristan nods. “And if only we could understand them.”
None of the crossbowmen speak a word of English. Their commander knew our language, but he is dead now, or wandering mindlessly across East Anglia. Pantaleon will have to translate between us, which is only slightly better than not being able to communicate with them at all.
“How much does the paid come upon me?” Pantaleon asks.
“You can keep the horse,” I reply. “That’ll be your paid for translating.”
“I gave the arse to the horse,” he replies.
“Ass,” Morgan corrects. “For. You gave the ass for the horse.”
“A donkey isn’t worth a palfrey,” I reply. “That horse is worth three donkeys. Are we truly going to argue about payment? Will you never do something simply because it’s honorable?”
“I fight with you,” Pantaleon says. “I make the Italiano into the English. I bring friends of you from the danger. Many things, I do. The honor is the good on you. The paid is the good on me. And none give me the paid.” He shakes his head. “I do not get the justice.”
“Get used to it,” Tristan says. “None of us gets the justice. Not a bloody one of us.”
Henry provides horses for all of the crossbowmen, but makes me swear that I will return every one of his animals when his army reaches St. Edmund’s Bury.
Apologies, Pantaleon.
I nod my agreement, thank Lord Henry for his help, and we chase the dying sun out of Stowmarket.
Twenty miles separate me from Elizabeth. Twenty miles, two hundred men, and an army of plaguers. But I have the Virgin Mary guiding my way, and some of the fiercest soldiers in Europe at my back.
The clouds tumble away from the setting sun as we ride, and one of the fiercest soldiers in Europe shreds the silence by shrieking like a woman set aflame. The cry is so loud and so full of terror that Morgan’s horse rears. Tristan and I draw our swords and whirl our palfreys.
“What is it?” I spin my horse again, eyes darting to the horizon and back. The Italians stare at me blankly. “What is it?”
A tall crossbowmen shrugs, points to a soldier with brown hair, and rattles off a stream of Italian.
“What’s he saying?”
Pantaleon speaks with the tall man.
“He is saying the man, Tarviccio, he do that sometime.”
“He does what?” I ask.
“He lifts the voice.”
“He screams?”
Pantaleon nods. “Yes. He screams.”
I look at Tarviccio. A thin man with a long nose, slouching in the saddle. He flashes a nervous smile and waves.
“Why? Why does he scream?”
“It is not known.” Pantaleon shrugs and nods toward the tall soldier. “The man there has the name of Frederico Longobucco. He say Tarviccio not make large problem, eh? He scream sometime. Is simple.”
“We’re trying to sneak past hundreds of men who want to kill us,” Tristan snaps. “I think it might make a large bloody problem, eh?”
Pantaleon speaks with Frederico Longobucco and they both nod. “Frederico, he say you not have worry. Tarviccio not does it many time. Very rare.”
I sheathe my sword, glance at Tristan, and drive heels into my palfrey’s flanks. Tarviccio could not have become a member of an elite class of warriors if he screamed often. It is an annoyance, but if it rarely happens I will not worry about it.
My company moves forward again, rumbling across the shallow hills of Suffolk. The sky is a fiery orange, the land beneath it a honey gold. Stalks of foxglove wave in the breeze, like rows of purple church bells, and another of Tarviccio’s shrieks rings out across the plains.
Chapter 37
I am not certain how best to approach St. Edmund’s Bury. The fastest path would be to follow the wagon road straight to the city’s east gate. Or to travel overland until we reach the Sudbury road, which knifes northward to the city’s southern gate. But Sir Gerald’s men will be watching. It does not matter from which gate we enter, we will be spotted a mile or more from the city.
If we somehow find a way to get past Sir Gerald, it will be a simple matter to enter the monastery. A tunnel beneath the prior’s chamber extends out to the banks of the River Lark. It is how Tristan and I entered and left last time, and it is the only way I can get to Elizabeth.
I break my horse’s canter and let her walk for a time as I think.
“We’ll keep going westward,” I say finally. “I want to stay off the main highways to the city.”
“If we continue west, we’ll hit the Sudbury road, Edward,” Tristan replies. “The one we took into the city last time. And Gerald will have men all over that road.”
“We’ll stop before we reach it,” I reply. “I’ll send up scouts and get a measure of Gerald’s defenses before committing.”
Tristan and Morgan look to one another. I know they are concerned about our chances. Gerald could have two hundred men or more around the city. I have no plan. No idea. The only certainty I have is that two hundred men are not enough to keep me from Elizabeth. But my friends should not have to take such a risk.
“Tristan, Morgan,” I say. “I cannot make any guarantees about our safety from this point. We may well be riding toward our deaths. I release you of any obligation you have to me. If you wish to return to Sussex, I will think no less of you.”
“I do wish to return to Sussex,” Tristan replies. “So let’s hurry up and rescue Elizabeth.”
Morgan nods. “I pity Gerald’s men if they try to stop us.”
I know I should try harder to make them leave, but I cannot keep the smile from my face. I could not find two better friends in all the world.
“I pity them too,” Tristan says. “They’ll be washing our blood and brains from their armor for weeks.”
“And think how sore their arms will be from all that mashing and hacking,” Morgan adds.
Tristan raises his hands as if warding off phantom blows. “No, please, no more hacking! No more mashing. Mercy! Mercy!”
Morgan laughs and slumps in his saddle, as if dead.
I stare at the sky and shake my head. I could not find two more irritating friends in all the world.
I try to gauge the character and emotional state of the Genoese as we ride. It is difficult to inventory men you cannot speak with, so I ask Pantaleon about them. They all hold the same basic rank, but it is Frederico Longobucco who took over the command when their sergeant was killed by plaguers. He is tall with dark hair and green eyes. Sharp-eyed and pragmatic, but with a quick smile that tells me there is far more to him than discipline.
Frederico’s opposite is a man named Rigi Coraggio, who is thick-shouldered and stubble-faced. Rigi, or Rizio as the others call him, possesses a rugged handsomeness. He grins perpetually, and the men never fail to return the expression. Pantaleon tells me that Rizio is famed for his inhuman ability to drink.
Joseph Magazzi is the shortest of the crossbowmen, and the best shot. I am told that he can hit a coin at fifty paces, but I will have to see proof of this to believe such a boast.
There is also Nicolo Barezzio—called Magnus by the others. A hulking giant who makes an eighteen-hand draft horse look like a pony. The man’s shoulders are like sandstone blocks, his neck an oaken stump. On his back sits a colossal siege crossbow—a weapon that is normally set upon supports and fired from castle walls. A siege crossbow can send a narrow tipped bolt through two knights in full armor. And when using the square-headed bolts—the ones meant for striking concussive blows against armor—the weapon can launch knights from their saddles as if ropes had yanked them backward.
I have never seen a man fire a siege crossbow without supports, but I have no doubt Magnus has the power to do so.
Pantaleon speaks about each of remaining men, adding his own insights and opinions. Antonio lo Grato is thin with murky blonde hair and is, apparently, quite witty. Domenico is fidgety and
sweats, and is the most devout of the crossbowmen. Ermolao is thick in every sense of the word. Thick fingers, thick features, and not the brightest of the lot. Francisco is so fat that the brigandine armor he wears had to be cut vertically at intervals so it would fit around him. Zilio is quiet, and Tarviccio … Tarviccio screams.
They are an odd bunch, but they follow Frederico’s commands unswervingly and seem to know their weapons well.
They will have to be enough.
We ride until the molten disk of the sun touches the treetops of a distant forest and sets them ablaze with oranges and yellows. To our left, down a shallow bank, is a tall barn and a stone cottage. A half-dozen men and women gather outside the door. Twenty or thirty shorn sheep mill near a stream, a stone’s throw from them.
I goad my horse toward them.
“Edward,” Tristan calls. “There are people down there. People have not been kind to us.”
“We need to know how far we are from the Sudbury road,” I say. “And we’ve got ten Genoese crossbowmen with us. I think we can deal with just about anything we encounter.”
Tristan and the others trot to catch up with me. “Have you been on the same journey I have?” Tristan asks. “I would like it known that I think this is a bad idea.”
As often as I have been amongst men, I have returned less a man. Father Peter’s words come back to me, but I wave Tristan off. The day I fear six unarmed commoners is the day I give up my spurs. I ride down the slope.
“Are you here for the miracle of Mother Mary?” A man calls to me. He wears a thick traveling cloak and holds a crude wooden cross in one hand.
“We just need to know how far we are from the Sudbury road.” An understanding of his words comes to me. “Did you say the miracle of Mother Mary?”
The door to the cottage opens and a thick-chested man with a beard that hangs to his stomach steps outside. “Greetings, I’m Alyn,” he says. “Orderly row, please. If you want to see the miracle, have your two shillings ready.”
Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) Page 22