Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) (8 page)

The others make their way to the dormer after the meal, but I cannot sleep, so I wander the old monastery building. I find myself in the nave of the great church. It is a long, three-storied chamber, each floor defined by arches that rise toward the Heavens, moonlight streaming in shafts through dozens of windows. I straighten my shoulders and walk toward the carved screen that hides the high altar. Only priests are allowed in the east end of abbey churches, so I kneel on the cold stones before the wooden screen and say a prayer to Saint Giles and the Virgin.

Morgan is healed.

Zhuri saw it happen.

If I had any doubts that the cure is real, they are gone now. The Syrian elixir works and my Elizabeth will return to me.

What happened to the alchemist’s wife was a mistake. Perhaps a bad seal on the ampoule made the tincture spoil. Maybe something corrupted the ceramic before the serum was added. Just a mistake. A mistake not likely to occur twice.

Nothing bad will happen when I give Elizabeth the cure. I have no doubts.

I pull on the cord around my neck and draw the ampoule out, study it closely to make certain the wax seal has not been damaged.

Elizabeth will be healed. The black of her eyes will fade—a stormy night chased away by the rising sun—and summer blue will rule my world forever.

I have no doubts.

“You should rest, Sir Edward.” Father Peter’s voice echoes through the nave. “The soul needs sleep to thrive.”

“My soul cannot rest, Father,” I reply. “It is plagued. And only my wife’s smile can heal it.”

He walks to my side, his soft shoes scuffling along the stones, white robes swishing side to side. “The cures. You have three of them, then?”

I rise to my feet and consider lying to him, but if God still listens to the voices of man, then it is priests who will be granted audience. And I need help to save His fairest angel.

“Yes,” I say. “Three.”

Peter’s gaze wanders across the face of the divider. “And where did these cures come from?”

I clear my throat to buy myself time. This is where things fall apart. God and science live warring kingdoms.

“An alchemist,” I say.

The priest nods, his gaze never straying from the screen. “It is said alchemists and sorcerers are unclean. That their works are the works of the devil.”

“So sayeth the Lord.”

“And will this alchemist make more of these cures?”

I shake my head. “The alchemist that made this cure is from Syria. And Syria burns.”

Father Peter looks at me, then gazes back at the divider. Crowns and ivy and fleur-de-lis are carved into the wood.

“Christ was an alchemist,” Peter says.

They are odd words, and I study the priest.

“Water to wine, no?” He grins without looking at me. “It can also be said that Moses was a sorcerer. Who but a sorcerer could part an ocean? Or turn a staff into a snake?” He runs his fingers along the screen. “If this scourge was God’s doing, then only God can undo it. And if this cure heals the afflicted, then God wants us to have it.”

“If only everyone thought as you do,” I reply.

“Will you find another sorcerer to make more of these cures?”

I shrug. “I don’t know any other sorcerers.”

He looks at me then, no trace of humor in his features. “I want you to promise that you will save one of those ampoules, and that you will give it to someone who can reproduce it.”

I look into the priest’s eyes and nod. “I promise.”

He shakes his head. “No, do not make your oath to me.”

He grasps the edge of the screen and drags it to one side so that the high altar—and the tall silver crucifix that hangs above it—are visible in the moonlight. “Promise Him. Promise our Lord and Savior that you will have as many of these made as possible. That you will distribute them across England. Promise Him. Fulfill that promise, and they will make you a saint.”

I grin at the last words. Saint Edward. Elizabeth’s eyes would roll for eternity.

“It would fill me with joy to find someone who could make more of these cures, Father. But I don’t know where to look. And no one will help me. I find that my greatest obstacle is not the afflicted, but the healthy. Have you been out there Father? Men have become like animals. King Richard is either dead or in hiding. We carve ourselves tiny kingdoms and wage war. God is wielded like a weapon, His words used to kill and torture. We have lost our humanity.”

The priest is silent for a long moment, perhaps mulling my words. When he speaks, his voice is low and sober. “The founder of our order spoke an ancient line of wisdom once, about the world outside the monastery: ‘As often as I have been amongst men, I have returned less a man.’ It is as applicable now as it was then. Men have always been animals. Humanity is the triumph of will over instinct.”

It is my turn to think about his words.

“I am one of those men, Father. I have warred and sinned and caused great misery. I have killed healthy men and I have killed men afflicted by this plague. I have sinned more than I can recount.”

He lets out a long breath. “Well, stop it.”

He grins and I smile, but the scars on my soul ache.

The priest rests a hand on my arm. “I see repentance in your heart. You are ready to be forgiven. I believe God is guiding you, and I believe He wants to redeem you.” The priest glances toward the altar, gazes at Jesus on the silver cross. “And I believe you are England’s last hope.”

“England is doomed.” My grin is a brief one.

“God has shown you the truth. The afflicted are not demons. They are sick. They must be protected and healed. They are not to be slaughtered, Edward.”

“Sometimes they must be slaughtered,” I say.

The priest shakes his head. “You would not slay a madman would you? Or an imbecile?”

I blow out long breath. “Only when there was no other choice.”

 “Only when there is no other choice,” he confirms. We sit in silence for a time before he speaks again. “Your salvation is within reach. Protect the afflicted, Edward. And put the cure in the proper hands.”

“And where will I find these proper hands?” I ask.

“On the proper person,” he replies with a smile. I fix him with a stare and he grows sober. “God gave you the cure, Sir Edward. It is you who must find that person.”

“God should be more selective.”

He points toward the crucifix. “Make your promise.”

I kneel on the cold stones again and clasp my hands, stare at a poor carpenter hanging from a cross, and I make my oath.

We rise at the first hint of dawn and help the priests distribute bread to the families that have made the monastery their home. Tristan lets children try on his gauntlets and both his helms. The children adore his silliness. They trail after him in a long line around the monastery for the rest of the morning.

I give Morgan the jar of Malta fungus and tell him to apply it to his wounds. He argues at first and recoils from the foul smelling substance, but I threaten to have Tristan hold him down and do it myself, so he relents.

We break our fast with a loaf of hard bread and a cup of wine, then Tristan and I brush down our horses in the cloisters.

“There is that smell again,” Zhuri says. “Like a woman wearing flowers in her hair.”

“We’re in the cloisters, Zhuri,” Tristan says. “There are flowers all around us. Why would you think the smell was coming from one of us?”

Zhuri tilts his head and studies Tristan. “I never said I thought it was coming from one of us.”

“How long will it take to reach St. Edmund’s Bury?” Morgan asks.

“It’s about thirty-five miles to the monastery.” I set the saddle on my horse’s back and work at the girth. “Six or seven hours at any rate.”

“It’ll take a bit longer than that,” Morgan replies. “Our cart is not very fast.”

I drape the saddlebags and work the straps that bind them to the saddle. “No, brother, it will be six or seven hours. You and Zhuri are going to Sussex.” I look up at him. “Your daughter waits for you there, Morgan. I thought I orphaned her before and I won’t take that risk again.”

Morgan stares at me for a long time, then he lunges forward and takes hold of the saddlebags, hurls them to the ground.

“Morgan what—”

“
How dare you
?” he shouts.

No reply comes to my mind. I simply stare at him.

“How dare you?” he shoves me backward and my horse shifts nervously, its hooves scraping dully on the stone. “Zhuri and I drove that bloody cart all over Suffolk and Norfolk looking for you! Every rut or stone we hit was agony to me, Edward, but we never relented. We rode to Bure, then Norwich, then a monastery in the middle of a damnable swamp looking for you. We have ridden for four days so that we could find you and help save Lady Elizabeth. And now you have the
hocks
to send us home? I swore an oath of fealty to you, Edward.
Fealty
!” The shouts ring in the cloisters. A startled sparrow flutters out from an old oak. “You have dragged me clear across England to find your wife and, oath or no oath, I will
not
go home now, when only thirty miles separates you from her. I will
not
go home! Do you hear me? I will
not
go home!
How dare you
!”

“Sussex sounds nice, actually,” Zhuri says.

“I’m sorry,” I try to suppress a smile. “Morgan, we would be honored to have your company on our journey. Would you like to accompany us to St. Edmund’s Bury?”

He glowers and crosses his arms. “No I bloody wouldn’t. But you can’t stop me.”

“Nor will I try again.” I look into his eyes so he can see my sincerity. “Thank you, Morgan.”

“You’re bloody welcome.”

We ride double across the fens of Norfolk, our horses sloshing though calf-deep water. It takes time to find the stable where Morgan and Zhuri stowed their cart and horse. In the end, we simply follow the sounds of snarling. A crowd of plaguers shuffles around the dingy wooden structure.

“I count eleven,” I say. “Let’s find an easy place to defend and draw them in.” I speak the words instinctively, then remember my conversation with Father Peter.

Morgan shakes his head. “Edward, those are people.”

Tristan scoffs. “They’re plaguers, Morgan.”

“They are people,” Morgan replies. “People who can be healed.”

“If we had a cure,” Tristan replies. “Those people will never be healed. They will wander like that until they rot. Is that truly what you want for them?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want, Tristan,” he says. “What matters is what God wants. And God said ‘thou shalt not kill.’”

“Yes,” Tristan replies. “But he was speaking figuratively.”

The afflicted are not demons. I made an oath to a crucified God, and so I must defend the victims of this plague. I must become champion of the dead.

“No, Morgan’s right,” I say. “These are people.”

“People who want to eat us,” Tristan replies. “People standing between us and Elizabeth.”

Tristan has fought at my side for two decades. He knows my weaknesses.

I cannot go to Elizabeth while these people surround the stable. And truly, what are a dozen more lives in this ocean of death? I touch the hilt of my sword, the leather worn and hard by years of use.

I made an oath.

“No,” I say. “They are people. And we’re not going to kill them. Humanity is the triumph of will over instinct.”

Tristan sighs. “And death is the triumph of instinct over humanity. So what do you suggest, Ed?”

“I’m going to reason with them.”

Tristan laughs, then sees I am serious. “Reason with them?”

Zhuri shakes his head. “There is no reasoning with the dead, Edward.”

“They’re only figuratively dead, Zhuri.” I ride toward the shed, shouting at the afflicted. “You’ll never get in there! Come at me instead! Come feed!”

It takes a moment for the plaguers to acknowledge my existence. They turn to face me, a few at a time. One peels itself from the stable wall and staggers toward me. Then another. Within moments every one of them lurches in my direction.

I lead them from the stable, around a patch of alders and through a field of turnips. Plaguers are lazy. They will not chase prey over long stretches, so I ride slowly and circle back close to them several times. When I am a hundred paces from the stable, I glance back. The wagon is outside. Tristan and Zhuri are hitching the horse. We have our cart and God has His peace.

A triumph for humanity.

Chapter 10

Morgan’s bloody cart mires itself every hundred paces or so along the marshy grasslands of southern Norfolk. Tristan and I must dismount each time and shove until the lumbering thing pulls free. It is a muddy, tiresome routine that slows us down and makes me anxious. Morgan insists he can ride, but I do not believe him. His skin, though healing, is still raw and new blood soaks through the white robes he wears. I give him ointment to apply to his wounds, but not even Malta fungus will heal him quickly. He should be resting. Mending at the Hedingham convent, not traveling across a plague-swept England.

Our floundering pace through the fenland is vexing, but it is not my biggest concern. My biggest concern is knowing that if we are to make it to St. Edmund’s Bury with the cart, we will have to travel upon main roads. And that is a grave problem, because Sir Gerald knows our destination. Our only chance of avoiding him is by skirting roads. If we had no cart, we could approach through Thetford Forest and slip into the city at night. But Morgan has paid a higher price than any of us on this quest. He has every right to be there at the end.