“Well, I couldn’t fit his whole body in there, could I, you leper? I’m takin’ him home, to his clan. And you’re one to talk about disgusting. Walking about with intestines in your hair.”
“I’m not a leper,” Morgan replies.
“Course you’re not. An’ I suppose those are just filthy priest robes you’re wearin’?”
Morgan crosses his arms and sighs. “I’m tired of this, Edward. I want armor. And a sword.” He shakes his head slowly. “Lord, how I miss my sword.”
“I thought Christ was your sword,” I mutter.
“Don’t be absurd,” Tristan says. “Christ is soft and fleshy. You couldn’t cut anything with him.”
“Forgive him, Lord.” Morgan gazes upward. “For he is stupid.”
“You do not wanting the big armor that is heavy,” Pantaleon says. “It make you not fast.”
“Don’t start on that again,” Morgan snaps.
“What’s your name, Scotsman?” I ask. “And where are you coming from?”
“Name’s Alasdair. And I’m coming from Rochester.”
“Rochester? The castle?”
“The very same,” he replies. “Colyne and me got let out.”
“Colyne and I,” Tristan says.
“No,” Alasdair shakes his head at Tristan. “Colyne and me. You wasn’t there, lad.” The Scotsman laughs, a wild, thunderous laugh.
“You were a prisoner?” Morgan asks. “They let you out of the dungeon?”
“Aye. We were prisoners. A guard opened the gates and said we was free. There was hardly no one at the castle. So we started walkin’ home. But . . .” his eyes grow wide. “There are these . . . these creatures walkin’ about. Horrible things. Colyne got half torn apart. And then he tried to have a bite a’me. I had to put him down.” He wipes at his beard and shakes his head. “I had to put him down.” He squints his eyes and brings the rotting mouth to his ear, nods several times. “Colyne wants to know if those men over there are with you.”
I feel the hoofbeats before I look up the slope leading to the cottage. A horde of armored riders trot toward the farm. I count them.
“Eleven. Pantaleon, I want the crossbows trained on them. We can take eleven men.”
As I watch, another three horsemen appear.
“How about fourteen?” Tristan asks.
“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out.”
Another six horsemen ride over the ridge.
“Shut that cavernous mouth of yours, Tristan.”
The riders rumble toward us. Twenty of them. Four wear full harnesses, with closed bascinets. The rest wear either leather hauberks or quilted gambesons. They halt within a dozen paces of the farmhouse. One of the knights advances a few paces farther, draws up his visor and immediately touches his nose with his gauntlet. The fat’s man’s stench still wafts from us like a curse. I finally make out the arms on the knight’s tabard.
Three roosters.
One of Sir Gerald’s men.
Of course.
“Look who we have found.” The knight speaks in a singsong. “Did you think you could hide forever? Did you think we wouldn’t find you? You can never outrun justice. And your justice will leave you in agony for days before you die.”
Chapter 40
“Take one more step,” I shout, “and these crossbowmen will fill your brain with yew.”
The knight leading the band of soldiers raises a hand toward me. “Cease your threats. I have no quarrel with you, good sir. Hand over the Scotsman and we will leave you in peace.”
It takes a long moment to find words.
“You . . . you want the Scot?”
“He tried to burn down a church,” the knight says. “We must make an example of him.”
“Will you give to us the paid?” Pantaleon asks. “If we give to you the red man?”
“Shut your mouth, Italian.” I sheath my sword and turn to Alasdair. “Did you try to burn down a church?”
“I’m a God-fearin’ man,” the Scotsman replies. “What sort of Christian would burn down a church? That English horse fucker’s got it wrong.”
“Silence!” The knight calls. “You dare speak to a knight of England in that manner?”
“You should hear what he said to me,” Morgan replies.
The knight waves his men forward. “Take the Scotsman. I want him tied to a horse and dragged back to St. Edmund’s Bury.”
Six men dismount and approach. I hold up a warding hand and they halt. “He says he didn’t try to burn down a church.”
“I didn’t!” Alisdair adds. “That knight and his men were rapin’ girls. Had them lined up outside the church. I tried to stop them. Not even English girls deserve to be beaten and raped.”
“He lies.” The knight studies me. “Do I know you, sir? What is your name?”
He waits for an answer, and I stare back, trying to think of one.
Everything hinges on two possible outcomes.
My instinct is to give him the Scotsman and take no chances. But humanity is the triumph of will over instinct, and England needs as much humanity as it can muster, now. I will not allow a man to be dragged to his death. Not even a Scotsman.
“Have you read much of the Old Testament?” I reply.
“I asked you a question, sir.” The knight prods his horse forward a step.
I have often wondered why the Old Testament exists in the Christian Church. The priests tell us that we must love our neighbor. Turn the other cheek. Live life as Christ did. So why must we hear about a vengeful God? Why must we learn about a jealous God who destroys his enemies and allows his followers to fall into eternal torment?
I understand now.
The Old Testament was left in the Bible to remind us that, sometimes, forgiveness is impossible. That there is a time for charity, and a time for whirlwind and storm. A time for love and a time for vengeance.
Sir Gerald has chased me the length of East Anglia. He has tried to kill me a dozen times. He has threatened to destroy my wife. And now Gerald’s knights stand before me, seeking to take more humanity from the world.
I feel the Old Testament rising up inside of me.
“‘The Lord takes vengeance on his adversaries and keeps wrath for his enemies.’”
“Why are you babbling Scripture at me?” the knight asks.
I walk slowly toward the knight. “‘His way is in whirlwind and storm.’”
“Are you quite through?”
“‘The mountains quake before him.’” My body trembles with rage.
“I will ask one last time. What is your name?”
“‘Who can stand before his indignation?’”
“Are you mad?” The knight’s horse sidesteps nervously at my approach. “Tell me your name!”
“Who can endure the heat of his anger?”
He glances at the crossbows on the shoulders of the Genoese. Looks back at his sloppy squad of mounted soldiers. His men send glances toward the Italians, toward the foot-long shafts of death locked into the firing grooves of each crossbow.
“If you do not release that man to us and tell me who you are, I will be forced to attack,” the knight says. “Is that what you want? Do you want to die here over a filthy Scotsman? Tell me your name!”
I take a step forward and draw my sword slowly. My voice ringing louder with each word. “I am Sir Edward Dallingridge. Husband to Lady Elizabeth Wardieu. Enemy to Gerald of Thunresleam. Champion of the dead. Defender of humanity, and killer of kings. I am the wolf that destroys the lambs, and I will send every last one of you to Hell if you stand down.”
“Edward Dallingridge!” The knight pulls on his reins so hard that his horse rears.
“The very same!” I raise my sword toward him. “Now get off your horse, and tell your men to do the same!”
“I’ll see you dead, first!”
Tristan’s sword joins mine. “The last man I stabbed with this exploded. Do you want to explode? Do you?”
“Kill
him!” This knight can shout almost as loudly as Sir Gerald. “Kill them all! I want Sir Edward’s head!”
“Come and take it.” I spit the words.
Tristan’s sword glints as he thrusts it forward. The knight jerks back in his saddle, then disappears in a flash of armor and a clangor of steel plates.
No one moves.
Tristan looks at his sword.
The man lies on the ground, beside his horse. A red stain seeps across the grass beneath his head. His men stare silently at the body.
I look back toward the Genoese. Magnus’s massive siege crossbow is no longer loaded. A grin spans his wide face. He winks at me. With all the shouting, I never heard the weapon fire. I turn back to the fallen knight. There is no sign of the bolt that killed him—it must have passed cleanly through the skull and bascinet and continued its flight. A siege crossbow is a terrible weapon.
I nod to Magnus. The rest of our enemies are still a dozen paces away. “Is there anyone else who wants my head?”
There is.
One of the horsemen howls. The rest of them pick up the battle cry, kick their steeds, and rumble toward us like a rockslide.
“Fire!” I roar. “Fire at will!”
Pantaleon does not have to translate.
Nine mighty cords of hemp—each drawn to a thousand pounds of force—unleash a storm of steel-tipped, leather-fledged quarrels. The bolts streak past me like Hell’s locusts. The bolts that strike armor do so with a subtle clank, like pebbles falling into an iron pail. But there is nothing subtle about the effect they have on the mounted soldiers.
Men shriek and fall from horses. Horses cry out and topple onto fallen men. The world erupts into howls and tumbling flesh. Blood has been unleashed. And the Old Testament rises like a thunderclap in my soul. I run forward toward the remaining men, but they want no part of my whirlwind and storm.
A half dozen of them are capable of fleeing, and they do. Several make their escape on horseback. Three of the leather-clad soldiers ride westward, while the last two knights branch northward.
“Get the knights!” I shout. “Get the knights!”
Joseph Magazzi unlatches his windless and steps forward. The other crossbowmen crank furiously, but I know they will not load quickly enough. I run to my horse.
“Io gli ho,” Joseph says. He sights along the crossbow, lets out a breath, and fires. The bolt disappears into the distance. Neither of the knights falls.
I look at Pantaleon as I vault onto my horse. “I thought he could hit a coin from fifty paces!”
“Maybe he can only hit coins,” Tristan offers. He and Morgan leap onto their palfreys.
One of the two knights cants in the saddle, then tumbles from the horse.
A fine shot. I nod to Joseph Magazzi, who grins and shakes his crossbow at me.
“Tristan, take the Italians! Get the three! I’ve got the knight!” I dig my spur deep. I have only one spur left. I’m not sure when I lost the other. The palfrey lurches forward and gives chase, grunts as it climbs the valley slope. The knight has almost reached the top of the hill. I dig my spur in again and shout at the horse. I cannot allow any of these men to escape. If Sir Gerald knows we are near, we will have no chance of getting into St. Edmund’s Bury.
The knight disappears over the crest of the hill. I shout again at my horse and the poor animal picks up its pace. Almost at the top. A few more paces. The horse blows, ears back, but strains harder. We reach the crest. The mounted knight sits only a stone’s throw from me. He holds something in his hands. Why isn’t he flee—
I hear the sound of the bolt striking my great helm an instant before I hear the bowstring release.
And death’s bony hand finally takes hold of me.
Chapter 41
Steel rings against steel.
It is the sound of combat, and that troubles me, because I do not think God would allow fighting in Heaven. I open my eyes and see a broken crossbow bolt on the ground, inches from one of my hands. I do my best to focus on it, but my vision swirls, as if I am underwater. A square head on the bolt. A cube on a stick. That is why I am still alive. The bolt was meant to unhorse me.
Death’s bony hand cannot seem to keep its hold on me. I thank Saint Giles and the Virgin for that.
A man howls.
I look up. The effort makes me nauseous. If I had not emptied my stomach earlier, by the stone circle, I likely would do so now.
My eyes focus. Pantaleon lies on the ground. The knight who shot me crawls away from him, one leg stretched out behind him and useless. Blood seeps from the knight’s armor, beneath one arm. He and Pantaleon have been fighting. I struggle to my knees but the world is a listing ship and I topple to one side. The setting sun is too bright. My helm hurts me. I work the straps and pry it off with one hand. The left side has caved in. I let the helmet fall to the grass and rise to my knees again. Fight a wave of nausea. The knight glances back, sees me, and crawls more quickly, panting. A horse waits for him a dozen paces away.
I rise to one knee, nearly fall over, and decide to crawl. It takes a long time to reach Pantaleon’s side. A crossbow bolt juts from his chest. Blood soaks the right side of his brigandine armor.
He grins at me through blood-stained teeth. “To wear the big armor maybe is not so stupid.” His voice sounds strange. The words seem to echo. I wonder, briefly, if I am dreaming.
“Why . . . why did you follow me, you . . . stupid bastard?”
“I must to watch you,” he replies with a strained smile. “So you are not to flee with not giving to me the paid.” He looks at the bolt in his chest. “You owe to me . . .” he winces and groans. “You owe to me much paid, now. Much paid.”
My fists clench so tightly that the gauntlet’s steel plates dig into the backs of my hands. I lift the slashed brigandine on his side and look at the wound. My eyes cannot seem to focus properly. “Women and . . . mead and horses. You’ll have them all . . . friend.” The knight’s sword left a long gash in his side. The wound will kill him, if the bolt does not do it first. I try to smile through a wave of nausea. “Not . . . bad. Little . . . Malta fungus. You’ll be . . . buggering arses again.”
“Ass.” He coughs. “Donkey is ass.” He rolls his head to one side so he can see the fleeing knight. “I broke the leg of him. And put the dagger below his arm. But still he go.” He looks back to me. “You will to kill him, please.”
“With many blood.” I reply. The words catch in my mouth. My throat feels hard, as if the skin is stretched too tight.
“With many blood,” he replies. “Go. I watch.”
I nod to the Italian and try to stand, but the world still sways. There is a ringing in my ears that will not fade. The knight is ten paces away. I crawl after him. He looks back at me and picks up his pace, grunting and dragging his broken leg. I groan at the pain in my head. Claw toward him. The earth seems to roll beneath me. I lean wildly to one side, then to the other. The knight pulls himself forward along the grass, the toes on his good leg digging into the soil for purchase. It is like a race between drunk infants.
I crawl a few more steps, then force myself to my feet. The landscape sways around me. I wonder where Tristan and Morgan are. The knight is only a few paces from his horse. I stagger after him, each step a victory of concentration. There is no Old Testament left in me. Only old bones and new aches.
He pulls himself forward, reaches for a stirrup.
I lumber toward him.
His fingers brush the metal. The horse nickers and walks a few steps away. Pantaleon chuckles again. The knight groans and crawls after his steed.
It takes five more steps to reach the crawling man. I feel for the sword of Saint Giles, then realize I left it back at the farmhouse. I draw my dagger, but it takes great precision or great strength to kill an armored knight with a dagger, and I have neither right now. A war hammer juts from the horse’s saddlebag, so I step past the struggling knight and draw the weapon.
I hear the sound of hoofbeats a
pproaching from the valley. I pray they are friendly hoofbeats. I raise the hammer in the air, and stumble back into the horse. The animal spooks and trots away.
“Oh, bugger it all.” The knight works at the straps of his bascinet. “Just do it.” He throws off the helmet.
“With many blood,” I mutter.
It takes all of my mental strength to bring the hammer down in the right place. The thud of metal on bone rings out, but I do not see the result. I fall forward onto the grass as the knight’s body slumps to the ground behind me.
Tristan and Morgan crest the hill and ride toward me.
I rise to my feet again and stagger to Pantaleon’s side. “He’s dead.”
The Italian nods. He looks up at me and winces. “I am to die. But I have spoken the lie. I am not come after you for the paid.”
My eyes sting.
“Honor,” I say. “You die for honor, Pantaleon.”
“No.” He shakes his head, tenses, leans to one side.
“No?”
He groans and lashes out with a gauntleted fist, catching me in the cheek. The blow throws me to one side. The world dims.
“What . . . what is wrong with . . .” I cannot get the words out.
“I die for the justice.” Pantaleon chuckles and touches his cheek, where the last fading remnants of my blow still shine. “You deserve the wife. Elizabeth. I hope that you are to get her, Edward friend.”
I let myself slump to the grass on my side and look at him, face to face. My cheek throbs.
Fear enters Pantaleon’s eyes. He takes my hand and I grip his tightly.
In this plague-swept kingdom, flesh is the new coin. Pantaleon has bought me another chance.
Pantaleon‘s death is another dark stain upon my soul. If I live, there will be no end to the churches I must build.
I will raise the first one here, where a great lion fell so that a wolf could carry on.
The Italian’s grip weakens as the fear fades from his eyes. And when the last glimmer of life is extinguished, I, too, plunge into darkness.
Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) Page 24