Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3)

  The cross atop St. Mary’s glitters gold in the fading light. Swallows fly in circles around the church. Eight more crosses glow orange upon the battlements.

  “No song?” Richard shrugs. “Then die, Edward Dallingridge. Speak your last words, troubadour.”

  I point. My arm shakes like an old man’s. The Lord gives me strength for one good scream, and I find the perfect words.

  “Kill the hairless carrot farmers!”

  A steel rain falls upon the knights. Some scream, but most simply crumple silently. Every one of them is struck, save King Richard, who looks at his fallen soldiers as if God struck them down.

  And perhaps He has.

  “No!” Richard shrieks. “Those were terrible words! Terrible words!” He spins in a complete circle and raises both fists into the air. “No!”

  I nod to the Genoese on the battlements. Frederico salutes me and shouts down, his voice distant and tiny above the battle, “So sayeth de Lorda!”

  Beyond the king, the executioner stares at the crossbowmen on the battlements, one of his sweating hands holds Elizabeth down, the other grips his axe. There is uncertainty in his eyes, and that is good. Elizabeth’s life depends upon uncertainty.

  Richard backs away from me, glancing to either side, his face twisted and flushed. None of his knights are standing. He rips the crown from his head with a roar. His hands curl around the metal so tightly that the edges gash his skin. Blood washes over the circlet of gold.

  “A crowned heartache!” His howls turns to sobs. “A dead prince’s shadow!”

  I barely hear the king. My life is Elizabeth, and her life hangs by a thread.

  Tristan limps to my side, his left arm tucked against his chest gingerly. He glances at Sir Gerald. The knight has thrown his helmet off, but still writhes on the grass, blood soaking his crotch. “They should remove one of the cocks from the arms of Thunresleam,” Tristan says.

  I barely hear him, too.

  Richard thrusts the crown out to me. “Take it! Seize the crown, cousin! They wanted an Edward. Give them one!”

  The crown glitters at the corner of my vision, but I want no part of that shackle. I shove Richard aside and lumber toward the cedar stump, still trying to soothe the executioner.

  My closest friend in the world speaks to Richard. “They haven’t had a Tristan yet.”

  I stumble forward toward the king and the cedar stump, holding my hands up, palms outward, toward the executioner. He tenses as I approach. Raises the axe.

  “Wait!” I hold up a hand to stop him, my voice echoing against the walls of St. Mary’s. “Don’t!”

  I leap.

  The blade drops with brutal efficiency.

  Chapter 54

  I have an instant to savor the feel of Elizabeth’s body against mine, before the bearded axe splits the back of my breastplate.

  The pain shatters my mind.

  I am back in Bodiam, showing Elizabeth the foundations of our castle.

  No one can harm us when this is built.

  Pain makes the vision billow, like reflections in a rippled pond. I will die. The executioner ’s blow will kill me. But I will break death’s bony fingers and hold him off long enough to give my angel her cure. And, if she returns to life, I will laugh and drink a toast with death.

  Agony enters my bones. It is as if I have tumbled from the abbey tower. I cannot feel my body. Only the reverberations of pain.

  I roll to one side. The executioner’s axe lies on the ground two paces from me. I follow the haft to his hand. The man lies on his side, his eyes open wide, gazing past me. Blood washes from a ragged hole in his cheek. An eighteen-inch crossbow bolt, thick as a wagon spoke, lies buried almost to the vanes in the earth beside him.

  I look toward the battlements. Magnus grins and holds up the monstrous siege crossbow. A terrible weapon. My spine throbs with pain.

  Elizabeth is on her feet, hissing, but Morgan holds her tightly, whispers soothing words. I look toward the battlefield. Richard’s men are routing. Henry’s army roars toward us, the first rank less than a dozen paces away.

  Sir Gerald screams. He forms no words, only echoing shrieks. Two freed plaguer women have found him. They kneel beside his head. One yanks his hair back. The other bites a chunk from his cheek. His screams are louder than I have ever heard. He is a few moments from Hell, and the dead and dying men of Richard’s army will follow him there.

  The king sits an arm’s length from me, rocking, arms around knees. No. Not the king anymore. The gold circlet is gone. Tristan kneels beside me, his helmet off and the crown of England on his head.

  King Tristan I, of England.

  “You’re going to need a new breastplate,” King Tristan tells me.

  But I barely hear him.

  It takes an effort to struggle onto my knees. Perhaps I will live, after all. My shattered breastplate falls away, thumps to the grass. Elizabeth snarls and paws at me with long, slender fingers.

  Elizabeth.

  I work the straps of my great helm, pull it off my head and toss it to the ground. Morgan lays Elizabeth on the grass with a gentle firmness.

  My Elizabeth.

  My fingers fumble for the cure, draw the ampoule out from under my mail. I yank, hard enough to snap the leather cord. The ground seems unsteady under my feet. I hold the ampoule in trembling fingers and break the ceramic seal.

  Dear God. How I have dreamed of this moment.

  How I have dreaded this moment.

  I cannot think about what I must do, I must simply do it.

  But I cannot.

  My arm trembles so much that I fear I will spill the cure. I hold it in both hands. Recall the scuttling horror in the cellar of the alchemist’s tower. I think of Good Queen Anne, strapped to a cross. Withering, teeth sagging and falling from her gums.

  I draw my dagger. If the cure goes badly, I will send my angel to Heaven, and follow Gerald to Hell. I have delivered the cure to an alchemist, and protected the lambs from the lions. But only Elizabeth’s life can cleanse my soul.

  Mother Mary.

  I can only say her name. There are no prayers strong enough.

  Mother Mary.

  Elizabeth howls and I tip the ampoule into her mouth before I can deliberate any further. Morgan pushes her chin upward and holds her jaws closed.

  Oh dear God. What have I done?

  Tears come to my eyes. Breaths become sobs.

  My Elizabeth. My angel. My wife.

  Tristan places a hand on my shoulder.

  What have I done?

  A voice rises in song beside me.

  “Nowel, nowel, nowel . . .”

  The mad king Richard.

  The crowned heartache.

  Elizabeth struggles against Morgan, thrashes her head from side to side, but he will not relent. I gaze into her midnight eyes.

  “Out of your sleep arise and wake . . .”

  Her throat pulses. She has swallowed the cure. It is too late. Too late.

  I stroke her face. She snaps at me, hisses. I take her hand, feel the long, pale fingers against mine. She draws in a screeching breath. Her back arches and she falls to her knees, lurches onto her back and flails.

  “. . . God has made for mankind’s sake . . .

  Her thrashing slows.

  I stare into her eyes. Are they lighter?

  “Eliza . . .” My voice breaks. I stifle a sob and start again. “Elizabeth, I . . . I met Geoffrey Chaucer. And . . . I saw a real dragon.”

  Her breathing grows softer, more rhythmic. Her eyes close. The snarl fades.

  “. . . all of a maid who makes me knell . . .”

  “I’m here, my lady. I’m here, my bride.” I run my hand over her head softly.

  And the first clump of hair falls out.

  Chapter 55

  I stare at the blonde locks in my hand. My punishment is complete. I have made a demon of my angel.

  My soul blackens. The Lord gave me one of his Valkyries, and I let Satan take he
r from me.

  I raise my dagger, stare at the blade in my trembling hand.

  “I am . . . so . . . so . . . sorry . . .” a sob breaks my voice.

  Tristan seizes my wrist. Morgan crouches over Elizabeth, protects her with his body. I struggle to free my hand. “Let go! I won’t see her like this!”

  “We can find another cure!” Tristan shouts.

  “We can pray!” Morgan adds. “God will save her!”

  “. . . of all the women she is the belle.”

  “I won’t see her change! Release me!”

  Tristan restrains me, shoves me backward. Are there tears in his eyes?

  “Ed . . . Edward?”

  The sound stops my heart. Silences the entire battlefield.

  No, it is not a sound.

  To call it a sound is to insult God. What I hear is creation. It is the seasons, all of them, together. Sun and snow, bright leaves and rain. It is the full moon and the glitter of stars. It is lemon and strawberries, honey and silk. The song of every bird that ever sang. Fingertips on your back and lips on your neck. A choir of gods.

  It is the sound of my Elizabeth.

  “She was dragged by her hair,” Tristan whispers. “She was dragged by her hair!”

  I stare at the blonde locks still entwined in my fingers.

  She was dragged by her hair.

  “God in Heaven, it works.” Henry Bolingbroke stands behind me with a dozen of his knights. “Heaven’s wonder, it truly works.”

  “Send these cures to every corner of England,” says Tristan. “My kingdom will begin its recovery today.”

  Lord Henry holds his hand out.

  Tristan stares at the hand, sighs, and takes Richard’s crown off. “So ends the reign of King Tristan I.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes brighten to summer blue. They meet mine and my breath catches. The long, pale fingers reach out, trembling. I take them and a tear splatters her skin. “Elizabeth?” I lower my gaze. God lives in her eyes, and I cannot bear to look. I am not worthy of Him. Or her. “You deserve better, Elizabeth. Better than an old wolf like me.”

  She reaches toward me with her free hand, strokes my face. The crooked smile returns. She speaks, and I fall in love with her once more. “You’ll do.”

  I laugh, or perhaps I cry. I do not know. My nose finds her neck. Lemons and strawberries. A thousand dark sorrows leave my body like crows from a forest. “J’taime,” I whisper. “J’taime.”

  Her fingers touch the tears on my cheeks, and blue lakes form in her eyes. “Yes,” she whispers. “I believe you are.” She shivers in my arms. “Where . . . where are . . . ?”

  “You’re safe,” I whisper, my voice choked. “You’re safe.”

  A trumpet blares and I glance back.

  Father Benjamin places the crown on Henry Bolingbroke’s head.

  Elizabeth’s arms find my neck, and my lips find hers.

  A great cheer rises behind me, echoing across the monastery.

  Richard laughs, still rocking a few paces away. “Listen to them, Edward,” he says. “Listen to them. They love us.”

  I do not know who the cheer is for, and I do not care.

  My wife is healed.

  I am healed.

  And soon, England will be healed.

  My nose finds my angel’s neck again, and I breathe deeply. Lemons and strawberry cleanse my soul.

  I look skyward, but I do not know who to thank.

  Help came from too many places. The Virgin Mary guided my way. The saints helped me cut through my enemies. The pagan gods protected me with their old magic, and the stars above kept me healthy and strong. Muslim and Hebrew wisdom discovered a cure. Alchemy crafted it. A woman reproduced it. And both a priest and the King of England gave it their blessings. It is a time of madness, and only the tempered madness of a half dozen beliefs could save us.

  I am still unsure of the affliction’s origin. The priests and bishops called it a scourge from God. They preached that the holy hand of the Father was purging the wicked from the earth. But I have heard many other thoughts on the cause of this sickness: the ground bones of saints; buggery; witchcraft; leprosy; rats; bad air. There are too many to recall.

  I am a simple knight, so I choose to believe that this sickness was a blessing. The Lord was merely testing me. Setting challenges to see if I was worthy of His greatest angel. I do not believe I am, but through a madness of perseverance, I have outlasted even God. And, for now, my trials have ended.

  Hallelujah.

  The End

  Historical Note: Episode 1

  Once again we find Sir Edward Dallingridge of Bodiam traveling the slightly altered landscapes of 14th century England. I will try to guide you through Edward’s England as best I can, pointing out the monuments of accepted fact and navigating the side roads that a historical fantasy must sometimes take.

  Book three strays from traditional history more than any of the previous two novels, mostly because of one event in history that I have had to change (I will discuss that change in greater detail at the end of episodes 3 and 8). As always, I have tried to remain true to established historical facts wherever possible.

  In episode 1, Edward and Sir Tristan find themselves running from the relentless Sir Gerald of Thunresleam. Our two knights leave the forest into which they fled and spot a hind that draws Edward’s attention to a cart upon the northern road. Hinds, Edward says, are Saint Giles’s animal. And they are, but who the hell is Saint Giles?

  Saint Giles was a Greek saint who lived in the 7th century. He was a hermit and a vegetarian, and he is said to have suckled doe teats for milk. You hear that sound? That’s the sound of Tristan laughing.

  Giles was shot by a hunter who was trying to bring down one of the saint’s cherished deer, and the saint was forever plagued by this arrow wound. Edward talks about Giles as “the patron saint of madness,” and he is, but, because of the arrow wound, he is better known as the patron saint of cripples. Unfortunately, “In these times of madness, only cripples will save us,” doesn’t have quite the same ring.

  I do not know if the real Edward adopted Saint Giles as his protector. I do know that the small church sitting next to Edward’s castle at Bodiam is devoted to Giles, so I like to imagine that the saint played a role in our hero’s life.

  Later in the episode, our weary knights encounter a band of pilgrims on the way to St. Edmund’s tomb, on a mistaken premise. They believe Edmund is the patron saint of England. And he was at one time. But King Edward III, as Sir Edward mentions, favored Saint George—A Roman soldier who slew a dragon. And so Saint George became the head of Edward III’s new order—the Knights of the Garter—and the symbol of England.

  In recent times, there has been a growing movement to change the patron saint back to Saint Edmund who, unlike St. George, was actually an Englishman. More on Saint Edmund later, but a part of me favors the change. Saint George’s red cross on a white background is England’s flag, but it was the flag of Genoa long before that. And Saint Edmund was not just an Englishman, but one of the earliest English kings. He died defending the English people from the Danish invaders and refusing to renounce his faith. All very good reasons to replace the Roman Saint George, who had very little to do with England. I also spend a lot of time in Bury St Edmunds (as the town is known, now) so I may be biased.

  We end the episode at a monastic house that lies on the southeast border of Norfolk. This is Langley Abbey, and parts of it still exist. You can visit the abbey and tour the remains and imagine what it must have looked like, standing upright before God, among the flatlands of Norfolk.

  Historical Note: Episode 2

  Edward was a knight with many friends, but the Dallingridge family (sometimes known as Dalyngrigge) wasn’t always so well connected.

  Edward’s grandfather, John Dallingridge, earned his prestige the old-fashioned way—he married into it. His marriage to Joan, daughter of Walter de la Lynde, gave John several estates, and, when John’s son, Roger, wa
s old enough, he too was married into a more powerful family. Roger married Alice Radingden, who gave him even more estates.

  So it was only natural that Edward, Roger’s son, should be married off to another powerful woman. And that woman was Lady Elizabeth Wardieu, who brought with her—among other properties—a small estate in Bodiam. But Edward’s duties didn’t end with his marriage. Like any knight, he was expected to carve out a better status for his family.

  And he was very good at carving.

  In his day, the ruling class were on the front lines of every war (things have changed quite a bit since then). So Edward was, first and foremost, a warrior. He started his battle experiences at the early age of thirteen, fighting in France under the Earl of Arundel. He was, apparently, a brilliant soldier, because he earned praise from all of his commanders, and received his knighthood before his 21st year. He fought in many different places, on land and sea, in France and Spain, for a number of famous commanders. But it was as a mercenary in Sir Robert Knolles’ free companies that he truly carved out a better life. He made enormous amounts of money with Sir Robert, enough to build a castle at Bodiam. Enough to make him one of the most important knights in England.

  But Edward was more than a good soldier—he was also a brilliant councilor. This combination of skills were highly sought after in medieval England. It wasn’t long before King Richard started taking notice of him. The king and the Earl of Arundel sent Edward to survey the coastal defenses of East Sussex, on the south coast of England. He was called again, in 1384, to survey the defenses of Rye (Tristan’s home), seven years after the French burned the town. I have seen no evidence to show that Edward ever inspected Framlingham Castle. In fact, I am fairly certain that he never did (not in an official capacity, anyway). But Edward’s keen eye for defenses is a good filter with which to look through when describing a castle.

  And while we are on the subject of Framlingham, there is one other inaccuracy, although this time it’s one of omission. A very small omission, but it wracks at my historical conscience, so I will mention it. A half-moon-shaped fortification defended the approach to Framlingham at the time this story takes place. It was a fairly major structure, separate from the castle, and Edward and his friends would have had to walk through it to reach the main gatehouse. I omitted it because it added too much complication to the description of the castle. There. I’ve said it.