The Scourge (Kindle Serial) (12 page)

It
won’t matter if some of the French find their way home. England is locked
again. I hope a few of them do make it back to the Continent. The tales they
tell will end the war.

We
aim our horses toward Elizabeth and leave the Battle of Lighe behind. Hadleigh
Castle fades into the mist, but I know we will not get far on this day. My
bones throb from the battle. Sir Morgan took a spear in his left arm during the
combat. We must rest.

We
ride for two miles in a steady rain before I reach my limit.

“There’s
a castle northwest of here,” I say. “Rayleigh. It’s not far.”

Tristan
smirks. “Robert de Burgh’s castle? You want to spend the night as a guest of
Lord Robert?”

“No,”
I say. “I would rather eat haggis. But the castle will be safe and dry. Robert
is half-mad but he’s not a monster.”

We
ride for another half mile, and shapes appear from behind a copse of yew trees
to the north. They are riders, six of them, wearing armor and cantering toward
us. I recognize the de Burgh lozenges on their tabards as they surround us.
They level their lances in our direction.

“What’s
this?” I ask. “I am Edward Dallingridge of Bodiam. Get those lances away and take
us to Lord Robert at once.”

The
knight directly opposite me removes his helmet and bows his head. He has long
black hair that spills over his shoulders. “I am Frederick of Brentwoode. And I
shall indeed bring you to Lord Robert. Where you will be tried for treason.”

“Tried…for
treason?” Morgan stammers over the words.

“Yes,”
Frederick says. He smiles wickedly. “Tried and executed.”

Frederick
of Brentwoode is sloppy. The spaulders sitting on his shoulders are loose and clank
loudly with each stride of his horse. The seams of his armor are caked in dust
that has settled among oil and was never scoured away. All of these knights are
similarly unkempt. They are a dingy, sloppy, loose-strapped mob. Robert de
Burgh is old but he was never untidy. I wonder why he would allow such unkempt
knights in his service.

I
have heard that Rayleigh Castle is not the most picturesque in England, but
nothing prepares me for what I see when it rises into view. As we approach the
ancient motte and bailey, I begin to understand why Sir Frederick and his men
are not concerned about their appearance. And I begin to wonder truly about
Lord Robert’s sanity.

The
castle sits on a spur of land overlooking the valley of the River Crouch. There
is no keep, only a crumbling stone tower that stands on the massive motte.
Eight filthy buildings of wood and stone litter the bailey at the base of the
hill. A winding stone wall rings both the mound and the inner bailey, but sections
of that wall have crumbled into loose stone piles. Silt and debris fill the
defensive ditches beyond that wall.

Sir
Frederick must see something in my expression. He points toward the castle. “Lord
Robert is going to redig the trenches,” he says. “And raise the motte.”

But
it’s not the hill I am focusing on. It’s not the crumbling tower or the fragmented
stone walls or even the decaying buildings in the bailey. I can stare at
nothing but a new wooden palisade that has been raised around the entire
castle, just outside the broken stone walls. It is a barrier of wooden stakes,
the only viable defense left at Rayleigh. And I cannot take my eyes from it.
Because upon every fourth or fifth standing stake of that palisade sits a human
head.

“I
would have gone with finials,” Tristan says. “But it does have a savage sort of
charm.”

Sir
Frederick points to a section of the palisade. “There’s room for three more heads
over there.”

A
throng of people mill at the palisade’s gatehouse. At first I assume them to be
afflicted, but as we get closer I see that they are healthy villagers.

One
of the knights in our column dons his helmet and gallops toward them with lance
lowered. The crowd scatters.

“Why
not just let them in?” I ask.

Sir
Frederick laughs. “Because they’re peasants.” He goads his horse into a canter
and urges us to keep up. Four of his knights lope behind us to make sure we
comply.

We
ride to the gateway in a long column and I look up at the wooden wall before
riding through. Some of the heads on the stakes have rotted almost to skulls.
Others look as if they were planted within the week. I cannot tell if these
people were afflicted or not. Death makes plaguers of us all.

There is a crowd
inside the bailey gathered around an arena made of great logs driven into the
earth. The logs rise to shoulder height and span an area large enough to house
ten horses. Twenty or thirty men peer over the rim of the structure and cheer. Lord
Robert is there too, a withered old man in a stained fur cloak. A chair has
been set on a high platform for him outside the wall. He slouches in the chair,
his feet level with the log tops, and peers into the ring like a spectating
cadaver. Something inside the makeshift arena roars, an animal scream. I can
feel the power of it in my stomach.

Sir
Frederick sees my interest. “Have a look,” he says.

I
do. Two brown bears battle inside the enclosure. Both animals are collared and chained
to thick stakes at the center of the arena. One of them, a massive beast with darker
fur, has its jaws locked under the snout of the other and rakes with massive
paws. The smaller bear roars, but it is not the same sound I heard a moment ago.
This roar is a shrill cry, and I understand that this animal is afflicted. This
plague knows no boundaries.

“Lord
Robert had them brought here from Germany,” Frederick says. “We had six. These
are the last two. We had one that could dance.”

The
contest is savage and short. They pound at one another. The larger bear shreds at
its opponent with razor-like claws, leaving ragged trails through its greasy
fur. The plagued animal shrieks and tears great gouges from the other’s
shoulders but can’t break free. It falls upon its back on the ground, bellowing
and pawing meekly. The larger bear braces its back legs and pins its opponent.
Then it shakes its head from side to side, its jaws still locked, until the
smaller animal can only twitch and make faint clicking noises, its oily black
eyes closing slowly.

The
victor howls. It shuffles away from the body and howls again. Perhaps I am
growing sentimental as I age, but its cries sound mournful to me. The bear’s
chain is tangled with that of the dead creature. It lopes toward the wall, as
far as the links will allow, and strains. The animal rises on two legs and places
one great paw upon the logs. It huffs and sends another roar into the skies of
Rayleigh. I don’t want to watch anymore. The lumbering animal spins in a
hulking pirouette, its chains jangling. It returns to the fallen foe, prods
with a paw and howls once more.

Sir Frederick forces
us to remove our armor and give him our new swords before we can enter the
great hall. It takes some time, so that when we enter, Lord Robert has been
helped into a throne set upon a steep dais. The steps are so steep that I have
to look up to study him. I would think him dead in that chair if not for the
baleful eyes tracking me. Sir Frederick climbs the steps and whispers to him. They
both look in our direction and scowl.

Robert’s
great hall is as filthy as the rest of his castle. Soiled thresh underfoot.
Packs of dogs circling and snarling at one another. A fire burns from a wide
hearth to the right of Lord Robert’s throne, the smoke from the flames wafting
into the hall in coils.

Two
long tables rest on either side of the chamber, and the men who watched the
bear fight now sit at the benches, eating. They stare at me and my knights the
same way they stared at those bears. I wonder if they want us to dance.

Sir
Frederick descends from the dais and takes position behind us.

 “More
traitors.” Lord Robert tries to stand but his arms don’t appear strong enough
to push him out of the chair. “Traitors! The three of you!”

I
march the aisle between the two rows of tables toward Lord Robert. Tristan and
Morgan walk with me, and Frederick follows closely. I step over a lump of dog
feces that steams upon the damp thresh. The stink of it makes me want to gag. Tristan
tugs on Morgan’s tunic so that the big knight stumbles and treads on the dog
droppings.

When
I am five paces from the dais I halt and meet Lord Robert’s gaze. “Is this how the
great Lord Robert treats his visitors?”

“Dreadfully
sorry. Was I being rude?” Lord Robert sweeps his arm grandly. “Welcome. Welcome
to my dung-pit.”

One
of the men at the table laughs. Lord Robert points a hooked finger toward me. “But
you, you are not visitors. You are my prisoners, you see? And tomorrow I will
have your heads ripped from your shoulders and I will stake your skulls upon my
wall.”

“I
don’t think he can make it to the walls.” Tristan’s whisper carries across the
silent hall. I can’t tell if it was intentional, but I want to clout him either
way.

Lord
Robert scowls at the remark. Sir Frederick spins Tristan around and drives a
fist into his stomach. I turn on Frederick but think better of it.

Morgan
helps Tristan to his feet. “I’d have done that to you myself if he didn’t.”

I
step forward. “Lord Robert, on what grounds do you accuse us of treachery?”

“I
have a manor in London,” he says. “A lovely place, with orchards and gardens.
And a couple servant girls with tits bigger than their heads.” He laughs, a
panting laugh, and glances at his men. They laugh with him. “But I can’t get to
London, you see? They say the bridges are blocked. I can’t reach my manor
house, or my orchards, or my servant girls. I was going to take the stones from
this dung-pit and build a church somewhere. Buy my way back to heaven, you see?
But I can’t do that, now can I? No. This dung-pit is my home now. And it’ll be
my grave.”

Morgan
wipes his boot against the thresh to clear the feces from his boot. “When God
lifts this plague,” he says, “you will return to your orchards.”

Lord
Robert laughs again. “This is no plague. This is witchcraft! Those pagans in
the west, they did this, you see? With their ceremonies and their idol worshipping.
They brought this down on us!”

“And
I will personally make sure that they answer for it,” Tristan says. “By your
leave, my lord.” He bows and whirls toward the door, but Sir Frederick shoves
him back toward the dais.

“You’ll
not go anywhere,” Lord Robert growls. “You will die in this dung-pit. Just like
me.” He points toward the door of the great hall. “Sir John of Mucking, now he
has a
castle
. Makes this place look like a cow pie. But it is not
his
castle, you see? It is not his. He has taken King Richard’s castle and
calls
himself
a king now! He is a king at Hadleigh while I…I sit here!”

“In
your dung-pit,” Tristan says.

“Why
can’t you go to Hadleigh, my lord?” I ask. “You have more right to it than Sir
John.” I consider telling Lord Robert that Sir John is dead, but I am not
certain if it will help us or make things worse.

“Oh,
I sent four knights to Hadleigh. I sent them to tell Sir John that he must
leave King Richard’s castle at once! That it did not belong to him, you see? But
only my loyal Sir Christopher came back.” He looks at the table to our left, and
a balding man with a scar on his cheek smiles and holds his hand up. He looks
familiar but I can’t place him. “The other three knights broke their oaths and
stayed. May God put a pox on their souls for leaving! But Sir John, he sent a
message with Christopher. He said that I was welcome at Hadleigh as long as I
did my share of
work
. And as long as I gave him all my knights. All my
knights! To a whelp from Mucking with no titles!”

Morgan
leans toward me and mouths “
Dead
,” his eyes searching mine. I shake my
head almost imperceptibly. If we tell Lord Robert about Sir John’s death, we
will have to describe our involvement with him.

Lord
Robert continues. “I can’t go to Hadleigh and get my men back.  But I can take
his, can’t I? Eight of those heads on the palisade belonged to his soldiers. My
men patrol, you see? And when they see Sir John’s men, they bring them here.
And those men become decorations on my walls.”

Slowly,
very slowly, he points three fingers at us.

“No,
no,” Morgan says. “We’re not…You have it wrong.”

“The
three of you have renounced King Richard!”

 “None
of us have renounced Richard,” I say. “And we are not Sir John’s men.”

“Truly?”
Lord Robert asks. “How very odd, because Sir Christopher says he saw you at
Hadleigh Castle yesterday, you see?”

I
remember now where I saw Sir Christopher.

“He
pretends to be Sir John’s man,” Lord Robert says. “But he is loyal to me.”