The Scourge (Kindle Serial) (11 page)

“Church
is empty,” Tristan calls.

Sir
John’s army looks tiny on that field. Like a patch of grass missed by a herd of
goats. But the goats are coming.

The
French have enough men to surge over the embankment and flank the English army,
but they don’t. They are confident of victory. Eight hundred footmen wait just
beyond the range of Sir John’s archers. Roughly three dozen mounted knights
stand at an angle on the left side of the footmen. None of them advance. For
the moment, the battle is fought at a distance.

Twenty
or thirty French crossbowmen hide behind pavises — massive wooden shields
spiked into the earth. The crossbowmen crouch halfway between the two armies.
Sir John’s dozen archers fire their longbows. The arrow strikes rattle against
the wooden shields like the song of a crazed drummer.

Tristan
cuts open the deer carcass and drags it along the crest of the hill. The first
of the plaguers are not far now. I have time for one more look at the
battlefield.

The
crossbowmen peer around their shields and return fire. Rows of dead and
writhing wounded litter the front ranks of Sir John’s army. Dozens of English
soldiers disappear into the river mists, their oaths to Sir John crumbling
under the relentless crossbow fire.

A
horn blares from the French lines. The crossbowmen pull the pavises from the
ground and back away. There isn’t a man on the field who doesn’t know what is
coming. The French horses sidestep and toss their heads — even they know what
happens next.

Behind
me, the first ranks of my army emerge from the mist. My soldiers are gray and
withered, painted in gore and mud. Their black stares make me shiver. I watch
them through the rows of gravestones and think of Judgment Day.

The
deer carcass is still on the grass, so I grab it by the rib cage and mount my
horse. Then I wave the bloody fragments back and forth through the air,
splashing blood toward the plaguers.

“I
feel like a fool doing this,” I say.

“You’ll
be pleased to know that you don’t look at all foolish doing it,” Tristan says.

 “Not
one bit,” Morgan says.

The
two of them laugh and I splash them with deer blood. Morgan has spent too much
time in Tristan’s company, I think.

The
plaguers howl and pick up their lurching pace.

“Shall
we?” Tristan says.

We
canter down the hillside toward the French.

The
legions of hell come with us.

Trumpets
blare again. Footmen sprint across the wet field toward the English in a crush
of mail and helms, spears and axes. Their screams echo across the landscape.

The
French never see us coming. Even if they could, the thick mist shrouds the rest
of our army. They would see only three knights charging. How could they know we
are not French? How could they know that hell’s infantry staggers behind us?

We
overtake the French footmen and gallop with them. I drop the deer carcass and
cut open a hulking Frenchman from behind, filling the air with his fragrant
blood and giving my soldiers a taste of their loot. Then we are past, riding in
the space between France and England.

We
near the English line and one of Sir John’s idiots shoots Morgan’s horse out
from under him. Sir Morgan tumbles to the mud. I loop around, but Tristan has
already circled back. The French footmen are a hundred yards away. Their cries
are like thunder. Their axes glitter in the morning light. I can feel the
tremor of their footsteps upon the glistening mead.

I
wait fifty yards from the English ranks as Morgan rises and clambers awkwardly
behind Tristan. His armor is streaked with grime. His horse writhes on the wet
soil, an arrow in its chest. The French are almost upon them.

I
kick spurs into my horse and ride toward the two knights. But Tristan’s horse
scatters divots of mud, and the two men flee the rumbling infantry. A Frenchman
throws a spear that skitters past them and glides sideways along the mud. I
spin my golden mare back toward the English. She slips in the thick mud for a
few paces before finding her stride. I can hear the sloshing tread of the
French behind me. Their battle cries deafen me. Tristan’s horse kicks up cold
mud that enters my visor and spatters my face. The English soldiers make space
for us and we gallop through.

“Your
men!” Sir John is howling behind an open bascinet helm. He sits at the rear of
the formation with his fifteen mounted knights. “You promised me five hundred
men!”

I
try to shout back but I am drowned out by the sound of infantry meeting
infantry. The shouts of men killing. The screams of men dying. Poleaxes
thudding through cartilage. Swords ringing off helms. Men crying for mercy.
Grunts. Shrieks. The cacophonous hymns of death.

“Make
them bleed!” a sergeant screams above all the other voices. “Stay in line!”

“
Abattre
!
Abattre
!” a Frenchman shouts.

Sir
John drops his visor and motions for his trumpeter. He wants to call a retreat.

“No!”
I lean in close to his ear and point toward the base of the hill. “Look!”

He
follows my finger, thensmiles. The first silhouettes of my soldiers appear in
the mist. “Five hundred?” he shouts.

“At
least!”

I
wonder when the moment of understanding will come to him.

My
plaguers no longer need me to motivate them. The prize is before them. They
hobble toward the French flanks as fast as I have ever seen them move. The
French cavalry is entirely focused on us. I almost feel sorry for them.

Sir
John has his moment of understanding. He gasps and when I turn to look at him I
can see his eyes widening behind the bascinet’s visor. “What have you done?” He
stares at the dark shapes lurching toward the French knights. “What have you
done!”

The
French knights turn an instant before my raven-eyed soldiers fall upon them,
but only a few escape . I ride to the edge of the embankment so I can get a
good angle on the carnage. The French horses are islands amid an ocean of
bloody, grasping hands. There are too many bodies for the horses to move. The
knights hack down with swords as their islands sink into the sea of rotting
flesh and snapping jaws. A plaguer is kicked by a dying horse and sails clear
of the melee, then rises unsteadily and returns.

Waves
of my shambling soldiers wash past the drowning horsemen. There is blood on the
frontlines and my plaguers howl for it.

Soldiers
on both sides roar. Terrible clarity has come to them all.

Many
of the French infantrymen turn to face the new threat. They have never seen
these creatures before, so, for a moment, many of them simply stare. And in
that moment, the English cut them down.

I
see one of Sir John’s soldiers strike a Frenchman in the head with a poleax.
The axhead crashes thunderously against the back of the man’s helmet. The nasal
helm crumples and a stream of blood arcs like a fountain over the battlefield. Another
Englishman sends a soldier to the mud with a spear thrust, then stamps his
bootheel upon the man’s face again and again until the skull shatters.

A
sword is not the best weapon in this sort of battle, but I take my share of
Frenchmen. One of them lunges at me with a poleax, so I crab my horse to one
side. I grab the man’s wrist and hack off his forearm with one swing. He looks
me in the eyes and shrieks.

I
ride along the lines, slashing down at the French. Most of my blows strike
mail. But the sword Sir John gave me is a good, heavy blade, and French bones crack
under its weight. I hammer a French helmet. The soldier jerks upright and falls
on two bodies next to him. Two footmen finish him with axes.

I
pause and stare out over the battle. My soldiers are almost upon us.

Somewhere
in the fray a soldier screams that he can’t see. Another just screams and
screams. Cries come from every direction, punctuated by the percussive clamor
of ax and sword. Snippets of them rake my ears.

“Hit
him! Hit him! Hit him again!”

“
Tuer
ce salaud
!”

“Yield!
Yield! I
yield
!”

“Stephen!”

“Kill
them! Kill them! Send them to hell!”

“Remise!
Remise!”

Too
many voices. Too much chaos. Lines have broken. The French don’t know which
enemy to face. Sir John’s soldiers swing murderously with their axes, splitting
armor and spines. Vast swaths of the French army’s right wing break off toward
the east, away from the battle. Sir Gerald gives chase with the English knights
and they slaughter whomever they catch. Another roar goes up from the soldiers.
The plaguers have reached the battle lines.

I
don’t know what I expected to see. Perhaps something biblical. Lucifer’s armies
descending upon mortal man. The battle of Judgment Day. Thunder. Brimstone.
Naked angels soaring down on rainbows. I’m not certain. But I know that what I
see defies all expectations. Not because of the horror. But because of the lack
of horror. I see warfare. Humans killing humans. Soldiers tearing soldiers
apart. Mine simply have less armor.

It
is no different than any other battle I have witnessed.

The
battle doesn’t finish. It dies.

Sir
John’s men stop fighting the French at some point. What remains of both armies
unites against the demons that I have unleashed. I fight them, too. As do Tristan
and Morgan. Sir John’s soldiers and the Frenchmen have armor and weapons, but
my soldiers don’t die easily. It is a long contest. And it no longer resembles
a normal battle.

A
Frenchman and an Englishman hold an afflicted woman by the arms while another Frenchman
shatters her skull with a war hammer, swinging again and again until she stops
moving. An Englishman begs someone to kill him as a mob of plaguers rip him to
pieces with hands and teeth. A dozen afflicted men and women hunch at the belly
of a fallen horse and feed while the horse kicks weakly with its legs. I cut
down an afflicted man who walks toward me with an ax in his back. Morgan slices
off the top of a man’s head, then makes the sign of the cross over the man’s
body. Tristan hacks and hacks with his new sword. I can’t see his face, because
of his helmet, but I am sure there is no humor there on this morning.

When
the last of my plaguers has been put down, there are seventy-eight Englishmen
left on the field, and about half as many Frenchmen. I know there will be more
casualties. Many of the soldiers left standing bear wounds inflicted by my
demons. They, too, will have to be put down.

I
kneel in the mud, exhausted, and pray that God will forgive me. It is possible
that He will, but Sir Gerald, apparently, will not. He screams so loudly that
the sound echoes across the valley, then he runs in my direction, his armor
jangling. I look up and he kicks me, sending me into the wet earth. Tristan
tackles Sir Gerald. Sir Gerald falls on his back, his helmet rolling away, and Tristan
pounds him with gauntleted fists until Morgan drags him away.

Tristan
screams at Gerald: “Get up! Get up you swine-turd!”

Sir
Gerald, bleeding from nose and cheek, screams in my direction. “Murderer! You
have brought shame to your lineage! You have…you have …”

“Kept
my word,” I say quietly. I rise and let the soft rain wash the grime from my
armor. “The French are gone.”

Gerald’s
shoulders heave. He does not try to stand. His eyes close, and when he opens
them, tears brim. “You have killed Sir John! He is dead because of you!” He
weeps and covers his face. I exchange glances with Tristan and Morgan.

The
king is dead.

I
am losing count of all the offenses that I pray God will pardon. I find it hard
to care. Elizabeth is my God. And she will forgive.

We find our horses and
leave quietly while Sir Gerald weeps. No one tries to stop us. Far below, on
the muddy estuary, the French ships list in the English clay. The tide is
creeping back from the North Sea, but the ships will never return to France.
They burn in the rainy channel, set ablaze by English soldiers.