Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) (4 page)

“I mean there is no way to get a wagon full of the afflicted into the monastery,” My voice is harsher than it should be, but I am impatient to continue my journey. “There are more plaguers than you can count around its walls.”

“No, about Edmund. You said he isn’t our patron saint?”

“Saint George is our patron saint now.” Why did I stop for these people? “King Edward made the change about fifteen years ago.”

A man with enormous ears steps forward. He is elderly for a commoner, probably in his sixth decade, at least. “I told you, didn’t I, James? I told you it was Saint George. No one listens to an old man, though, do they?”

“No!” One of the pilgrims shouts in horror. “
No
!”

“It was bound to happen,” Tristan calls to the screaming man. “How can a dead king compete with a dragon slayer? Edmund’s still a saint. He’s just not England’s saint. And while we are on the subject, do you know that Sir Edward and I slayed a dragon?”

We did not slay a dragon. We tried to slay one, but we only scared it onto someone else’s spear with our cannon fire. Tristan has claimed the kill anyway.

But the pilgrim’s shout has nothing to do with dragons or Saint Edmund or Saint George. One of the plaguers in the cage, a tall woman, batters a young man with her hands. The young man snarls at her but cowers against the bars and does not fight back.

“William, you need to bind your wife!” The pilgrim gestures angrily toward the female plaguer. “How long must I suffer this? Look at my poor son’s face. Look at him!”

“There’s nothing to be done, Henry,” William replies. “Just look away.”

I turn to James. “Prayer will not help these people. I prayed for my wife at Saint Edmund’s shrine for two days without pause, and nothing came of it. Going to that monastery will only bring you death. Return to Wymondham. A cure for this plague exists, and if God wills it, your loved ones will be healed. We will help you free your wagon and you can return home.”

James sweeps wet hair from his forehead and sniffs at the air. “Do either of you smell lavender?”

Tristan folds his arms and tucks his hands beneath them. “Let’s get this wagon free.”

James nods, but hesitates. “You wouldn’t . . . you wouldn’t know where Saint George’s shrine is, would you?”

James is an idiot. I glance at the pilgrims he leads and shake my head.

Men will follow anyone.

“William!” The pilgrim named Henry points again to the bullying woman in the cage. “She’s biting him! Simon’s song, she’s going to kill him!”

“She’s just gnawing, Henry,” William replies. “She’s doing no real harm.”

The old man with the big ears waves to get my attention. “Did you say there is a cure?”

“Yes,” I say. “We have seen it.”

The pilgrims whisper to one another, cast hopeful glances toward us. One, a tall man with wisps of black hair pasted to his forehead, calls out: “What kind of cure?”

Tristan and I glance at one another. This is where things will fall apart. God and science live in warring kingdoms.

“It is an elixir,” I say. “It heals the afflicted and completely removes the plague. Now let’s get this wagon free.” I walk toward the oxen but no one follows. A silence settles among the pilgrims as they think about what I have said.

“An elixir for the plague?” James says. “Do you think we’re fools?”

Tristan nods. “Yes, but he’s telling the truth.”

The wagon rolls forward two feet, strains and shudders, then rolls back again. The drover shouts that they need to put something into the rut to ease the wheels out. He whips the Devons again drawing more blood and the plaguers in the cage shriek and reach wildly through the bars toward the bleeding beasts.

 “A holy elixir?” James asks. “Water blessed by the Pope?”

“Which Pope?” Tristan says with a grin.

I nudge Tristan into silence. He is joking about the great schism that has shaken our Church. Two men have claimed the papacy; Pope Urban VI and Pope Clement VII. I have heard it said that this schism is the cause of our plague. But I have also heard that horse buggery is the cause, so I do not give such talk much credence.

“It is not a holy cure,” I say. “The elixir was made by an alchemist.”

Gasps rise from among the pilgrims. It is as if I had said Satan made the elixir. The wagon rolls forward, creaks as it rises a few inches, then falls back again.

James tries to speak but can only sputter at first. “Alch . . . alchemy is a
sin
! We shall not be tempted by such evil!”

“I don’t care what you will be tempted by and what you won’t,” I say. “I only want to free your wagon and continue on my way.”

The elderly man with the large ears scratches at his cheek and looks into my eyes. “You say it works? You say the elixir has cured people?”

James turns on the old man. “Shut your mouth, Joseph, lest evil get inside! Alchemists are the devil’s monkeys! So sayeth the Lord!”

Tristan shakes his head. “You can’t just make up things that the Lord said.”

The old man shrugs. “These men said the cure works, so they did. Maybe God sent this elixir. Don’t the Bible tell us that ‘Every good gift is from above, coming down through the Father of Lights?’”

 “So sayeth the Lord,” Tristan adds.

“Do not try to twist the word of God, Joseph. Alchemy is a sin. If even one among us falls to temptation, we all fail. We must remain united in our faith.”

“I just think we should maybe listen to these young gentlemen, so I do,” Joseph replies. “If they know of a cure, it might be—”

One of the pilgrims steps forward, a thick-chested man with a red beard. “Shut that toothless mouth, Joseph. Why must you be so contrary? Always an argument from you. You heard James.” He jabs a finger toward the plaguers in the cage. “All the afflicted will be lost if even one of us loses faith.”

“I want to cure my Agatha, Martin!” the old man’s shout warbles with defiance. “If something can bring her back, then it can’t be bad, can it? I love God with all my heart, and if He sends us a gift, who are we to refuse it? ‘Can you fathom the mysteries of God? They are higher than the Heavens. They are deeper than the depths of the grave.’” He looks at Tristan and nods curtly. “So sayeth the Lord!”

The old man’s feistiness makes me grin. This grizzled wolf is half in the grave, but the hunger for Agatha still burns in his belly.

Martin’s face grows redder than his beard. He clenches and unclenches his fists. “You will stop using the words of the Lord to defend Satan’s works! I am tired of your mouth, old man! We’ve had nothing but grief from you since we started. And I’m through with it. Do you hear me?”

Tristan points at the old man’s ears and smirks. “I’m fairly certain he hears you.”

“This man is an elder,” I growl to Martin. “Don’t speak to him like that. Show him respect.”

A wiry peasant holding a thick walking staff steps forward. “The knight speaks the truth! Leave him alone, Martin. You oughta be ashamed, bringing shouts against an old man.”

“It’s him should be ashamed, Thomas,” Martin says. “He’ll bring doom down on all our families!”

James of Wymondham snarls at me, then raises his staff and shouts to the peasants. “Look at yourselves! See what Satan has wrought? This is what these men of Satan want. To drive us apart! Joseph, will you take the apple they offer? Will you side with the Serpent?”

“You obviously don’t want our help,” I say. “Come, Tristan.” I walk past the wagon, looping wide around the reaching arms of the afflicted. The fresh blood from the backs of the oxen has worked the plaguers into a frenzy. The bars creak as more and more bodies push against the front of the cage. Trembling, blood-spattered arms extend toward the animals.

“I wouldn’t whip them anymore,” Tristan calls to the drover.

The drover whips the oxen one last time and the wagon rises, creaks loudly, then rolls free of the trench. The drover whoops and, at the same moment, terrible shouts rise up from the pilgrims behind us. Shouts so loud and so panicked that Tristan and I draw our swords as we turn.

The pilgrim with the walking stick, Thomas, is on his knees in the mud, staring at the road. Martin, the burly man with the red beard, holds his side with one hand and stares toward the road as well. In fact, all of the gathered pilgrims stare at the same spot—the rut that had trapped the wagon’s wheel. And in that rut lies the old man, Joseph. His body has been driven deep into the mud, but his shoulders are propped against the walls of the furrow so that his head juts forward. His eyes are tightly shut, his mouth open in a four-toothed, silent death scream.

I push my way to the body and stare at him like everyone else. It takes a long moment before I can speak. “You . . . you pushed him under the wagon.”

“No,” Martin and Thomas both say it as one.

“He hit me with that stick.” Martin gestures to Thomas.

“He shoved me!” Thomas replies.

Tristan sheaths his sword and brings his ear to the old man’s shattered chest.

James falls to his knees and covers his mouth with one hand. “They . . . they were pushing and . . . Martin . . . he shoved Thomas into Joseph . . .”

And Joseph became traction for the wagon.

Tristan shakes his head slowly and stands. Bile rises at the back of my throat. More humanity gone from the world.

“It was them.” James’s voice is almost a whisper. He rises to his feet and points a trembling finger at me. “It was their fault. They brought the devil with them!”

Heat rises in my cheeks. I try to calm myself with deep breaths. “We did nothing of the sort.”

“They did this!” James’s voice grows louder, more confident. “Joseph’s blood is on their hands!”

“You’re a lunatic,” Tristan says. “We had nothing to do with his death.”

But the pilgrims make a loose circle around us, scowls on their faces.

“Whoever takes a human life,” James shouts, “shall surely be put to death! So sayeth the Lord!”

Tristan draws his sword again and glances at me. “I think He might actually have said that one.”

Chapter 5

“This nonsense stops now!” I use my battlefield voice, shouting so loudly that it makes my throat raw. “If you want to know what killed him, then look to yourselves! Your foolish squabbles led to this!”

Thomas points toward us. “It was them,” he says. “They did this.”

Martin nods. “They are not men, they are demons.”

Tristan and I try to back away from the pilgrims but hands shove us forward. They have encircled us.

James raises the crucifix high into the air. “God has punished Joseph for listening to the devil. And now we must cast these demons back to Hell.”

A few of the pilgrims shout their agreement, but most just cast wary glances toward us.

“What will you do?” I shout. Rain patters of my breastplate. Thunder rumbles in the distance. “Will you try to kill us? Will that bring Joseph back?”

The two mercenary guards push their way through the crowd and stand beside us. “This ain’t right!” one of them shouts. “These men are knights! They didn’t kill nobody!”

A man in white robes stoops and digs a flint from the mud. He holds the flint up so everyone can see. “The guards are demons as well! The Lord says all demons must be stoned!”

“Amen!” James shouts.

More pilgrims pry stones from the road. “Death to the demons!” Martin shouts.

“Mary’s tits!” shouts the guard. “This is going to be a misery of shit.”

“So sayeth the Lord,” Tristan calls. He hunches low and raises his sword high.

A flint clatters off the back of Tristan’s breastplate. He whirls and glares at the crowd.

 “Enough!” I raise my shield and the four of us try to hide behind it. “Back away! No one is going to stone anyone. No more blood will be shed here today. Is that understood?”

Most of the pilgrims still look uncertain, even the ones holding flints. Stones will not harm armored men unless the armored men are on the ground and being bludgeoned. I do not think these pilgrims have the mettle to do such a thing, but I would rather not find out. I balance my sword against my knee and slip my helmet on. Tristan pulls his on as well.

“We’re going to shove past them and run,” I say. “On my signal.”

Tristan shakes his head. “I’m not running from pilgrims, Ed.”

“You’re not going to kill any of them,” I reply. “No one else dies today.”

A scream slices through the rainy afternoon like a shard of broken glass through parchment. I turn toward the wagon.

 “Stupid son of a whore!” Tristan shouts.

“Almighty Father,” says one of the guards.

Henry, the pilgrim whose son was being bullied in the cart, has opened the cage door. A river of plaguers tumble from the wagon onto the muddy road. Some of them have already gotten to their feet. And three of these are fighting over Henry. They tear at him with teeth and nails. His linen robes rip loudly. Blood spatters onto the wagon in a red spume. Two of the pilgrims rush to Henry’s side—their shouts sounding flat in the rainy afternoon—and try to pull the plaguers off. But they too get swallowed by the afflicted wave.

Tristan smacks the guards’ horses with his gauntleted hands and the animals run, snorting, toward the south.