The Scourge (Kindle Serial) (15 page)

In
these times of madness only madness will save us.

The
spectators are silent. Their moment of understanding will arrive soon enough. I
leap onto the wall and pull myself up toward Lord Robert’s platform. Powerful claws
rake at my leg and catch my foot again. Lord Robert tries to rise from his
chair. I grab at his legs. My hands slide on the dry, cracked leather of his
boots as the bear pulls me backward. Robert screams for Frederick. My own boot
comes off and the bear falls away for an instant. I pull myself up Lord
Robert’s shin and clamber over the wall.

I
have an instant to note the look of shock on Robert’s face before I jump off
the side of the platform. It is a look I will savor for the rest of my days.
The bear scrabbles for purchase behind me, and then it is on the platform. The
shrieks from Lord Robert meld with the plagued animal’s howls.

And
England has one less lunatic king.

Our
horses kick up great divots of earth as we gallop toward the north again. My
hands are numb upon the reins as a cold drizzle spatters us. I glance backward
once to see if we are pursued, but no one follows. The afternoon mists swallow Rayleigh
Castle.

Tristan
hoots as we ride, and I marvel that the three of us still live.

I
recall screams and panic after I leaped from Lord Robert’s platform. Sir
Frederick tried to save his master from the bear’s savage assault. I see a
flash of it in my mind — the knight running up the platform stairs with his
helmet off. Frederick and bear came crashing to the mud behind me a heartbeat
later.

I
wonder if Sir Frederick died instantly from the weight of the animal, or if he
lived long enough to feel the claws shred his face. To feel those great fangs
rip his throat apart.

I
think most of Lord Robert’s men fled after that. A few ran into the rotting
buildings and barred the doors, leaving others pounding and begging for entry.
A large group of men opened the great palisade gates and made for the valley.
The smart ones ran to the stables, which is where I went, too, limping on my
bruised ankle. A man with a tangled beard tried to make off with my golden mare,
but I struck him down with bare fists and he decided another horse would be
better.

Lord
Robert’s men never unsaddled our horses. Their laziness disgusts me, but it
made our escape easier, so I suppose I shouldn’t complain. Sir Frederick’s
destrier was similarly tacked. In fact, the knight’s gray warhorse still wore
its metal barding, so I left Morgan’s horse behind and took Frederick’s
instead. I scooped up a bridle knife on the way out and searched for my
companions.

They
were not hard to find. Tristan and Morgan shuffled toward the open palisade
gate, stumbling and tripping over the rope that bound them as they tried to
match paces. Despite the immediate danger, I found myself smiling as they
shouted and shoved at one another. I tossed the bridle knife to Tristan. He
sliced the rope and the three of us mounted our horses and made for the valley.

I
caught sight of the afflicted bear one last time before we fled Lord Robert’s dung-pit.
The animal bled from a number of wounds. The bodies of the two halberd knights
lay at its feet. Another three knights circled the creature with swords drawn.
The sound of our horses’ hooves made the bear glance over and I met its black
gaze for an instant before the grime of Rayleigh Castle gave way to the English
heath. We have not stopped riding since.

We
pass two milestones on the Roman road before I finally slow my mare. Tristan
and Morgan catch up. Morgan’s barded destrier kicks and bites at anything near
it, so he has to ride at a distance from us.

We
have very little among us. My breastplate and great helm dangle from the
saddle, but I have lost everything else. I have no mail, nor gauntlets. I wear
only one boot and the ankle within it throbs — I can almost feel the crush of
the chain still upon it. I stare at my belt and sigh. Once again I am without a
sword.

Tristan
and Morgan have it even worse. They have only boots, tunics, and leather
breeches. But we smile at one another. We are alive.

When
we have traveled for a half mile, Sir Morgan calls to Tristan, “Do you see
God’s almighty power now?”

“I
see rain, Morgan. Can’t God in His almighty power do something about all this
blasted rain?”

“In
Lord Robert’s hall you swore that you would join the priesthood if God saved
you, Tristan. I think when we return from this journey, you should honor your
word and take the cloth.”

“Satan’s
hairy arse I will! It wasn’t God who saved me.”

“He
did save you,” Morgan says. “You are alive by His grace.”

“No,
Morgan. I am alive by Sir Edward’s grace. It was Edward who saved me.”

“Did
he?” Morgan asks. We ride quietly for a time. Sir Frederick’s barded destrier bites
at its bit and fights Morgan for control. When he settles the horse, Morgan
speaks again. “I am grateful to Sir Edward, but I am certain that the idea of a
trial by combat was divinely inspired. As was his solution in the arena.”

“Sir
Edward is a clever man,” Tristan says. “He doesn’t need God’s help to form a
plan.”

“The
plan seemed to come to him just after you swore to join the priesthood, did it
not? God works in marvelous, wondrous ways.”

“Why
is it that God is responsible for everything good in our lives, but anything
bad is our own doing?”

Morgan
sighs and looks in my direction. “Sir Edward, did the solution to our problem
come to you from seemingly nowhere?”

“Yes,
Morgan,” I say. “I felt a mysterious warmth. And the idea…well, it just flowed
into my mind. As if from on high.”

“See?”
Morgan says. “See?”

Tristan
shakes his head.

“I
think I heard singing, too,” I say. “Beautiful, unearthly voices.”

Sir
Morgan struggles to keep his smile.

“I’m
sure they must have been angels singing. Or cherubs. Or fat, dead monks, maybe.
The sweetest voices in heaven. I nearly wept with joy. In fact, I get a little
teary just thinking back on it.”

Morgan’s
smile turns into a scowl.

“Tristan,”
I say. “Did you see me rise off the ground? I’m certain I felt something
lifting me heavenward.”

“No,”
Tristan replies. “But I did notice that the hedge outside the window burst into
flames, Sir Edward.”

“Yes!
Yes!” I say. “It was the bush that told me to ask for a trial by combat!”

Morgan
shakes his head and trots his horse ahead of us. “You don’t have to hide behind
mockery,” he calls back. “God saved Tristan. And both of you know it.”

I know of another
castle about fifteen miles from here, at Pleshey. I’m not sure if we can make
it by nightfall, but I want to try. Thomas of Woodstock — King Richard’s uncle —
owns that castle and I would very much like to speak with him.

“You
don’t really think Woodstock will be at Pleshey, do you?” Tristan asks.

I
shrug. “Most likely not. But if he is then maybe he can tell us what has happened
to Richard and the might of England.”

“King
Richard and the might of England are probably tucked away in the Tower of
London, like they were during the Peasants’ Revolt,” Tristan says. “I wouldn’t
trade places with him for all the gold in the world. Can you imagine what
London is like?”

I
can imagine what London is like. That is why I crossed the Thames at Dartford.
And Dartford was bad enough. If Thomas Woodstock is in London, I wonder who claims
ownership of Pleshey Castle now. What mad tyrant rules that dung-pit.

Sir
Morgan rides ahead of us on Sir Frederick’s armored horse. He is still cross
about my teasing and I feel a flicker of remorse for the mockery. I canter my
mare forward. The rain plinks off the metal barding on Morgan’s horse. As I
approach, the destrier flattens its ears and snakes its head out to bite at my
horse, so I veer to one side.

“Morgan,”
I say, “I’m sorry…” My words trail off. There is movement farther down the
road.

“Is
that a wagon?” Morgan asks. Tristan spurs his gelding forward, and Morgan’s
destrier kicks at it.

“Surly
bastard,” Tristan says. “Why’s that wagon going north?”

“I
don’t know,” I say. “Let’s find out.” I kick my mare into a trot.

The
wagon is large and boxed with wooden boards so that it gives the impression of
a hut on wheels. Rows of stakes have been thrust through the base of the cabin
to form a bristling defense around the perimeter. A crucifix the size of a
child’s coffin hangs on a staff that has been affixed to the front of the
cabin, near the driver’s box. The staff rises five feet above the roof and sways
from side to side as the wagon creaks and rattles along the muddy Roman road.

A
wrinkled face peers back at us. The two draft horses pulling the wagon slow to
a halt, and a hunched old man steps gingerly from the driver’s box holding an
ancient crossbow.

“I
am under the Lord’s protection,” he says in a voice that is high pitched and
squeaky. “Ye be warned.”

“If
the Lord protects you, why do you need a crossbow?” Tristan asks.

The
old man studies Tristan, then spits. “Because sometimes I like to have a little
sport before the Lord destroys my enemies.” He looks us over. “Are you my
enemies?”

“You
have nothing to fear from us, old man,” I say.

He
wears a loose woolen tunic that falls to his knees. A velvet cape that looks
too expensive for him rests on his shoulders, and a gold cross hangs from a
chain around hisneck. “I am Gregory the
Wanderer,” the man says. It is an apt name, for one of his eyes wanders far
from true.

“What
brings you here, Gregory?” I am not sure which eye to look into, so I switch
from one to the other. “Travel north of the Thames is dangerous these days.”

“I
do God’s work,” Gregory says. Morgan’s destrier bites at one of Gregory’s
horses and the old man jabs at it with his crossbow. “So God protects me.”

“A
lot of people who do God’s work are staggering and eating their brethren these
days,” Tristan says. “God’s protection has become rather fickle.”

“God
protects those who are faithful to him.” Gregory stands with his head turned
slightly away from us, as if he might see God in the rainy fields.

“Then
half of England must not be very faith…” Tristan trails off with a sigh. “Look,
old man, can’t you wear a patch or something? At least turn my way so I know
which one to look at.”

“It
is noble to do God’s work,” Morgan says. “Are you a priest?”

Gregory
studies us for a long moment. He glances at my breastplate and helmet. “You are
knights?”

“We
are.” I make introductions. Gregory nods and tosses his crossbow onto the
driver’s box.

“I
am no priest,” he says. “I am a gatherer. I collect shards of heaven.”

“Shards
of heaven?” I ask.

“Aye,”
he says. “Relics of the holy martyrs and saints.”

Morgan’s
breaths quicken. “Relics?”

Gregory
nods. “I find them in the abandoned churches and shrines of England.”

We
look at one another, then at his wagon. Gregory studies us warily, then glances
at the crossbow on the driver’s box.

“What
do you do with these relics?” I ask.

“I
watch over them,” Gregory says. “I am their guardian and I will protect them for
all of eternity.”

“All
of eternity?” I say.

Gregory
shrugs. “Or until someone makes a decent offer for them.”

We have a relic in our
little church of St. Giles in Bodiam, in a silver reliquary shaped like praying
hands. It is said to be the finger of the church’s namesake. St. Giles is the
patron saint of cripples and the insane, and Elizabeth was enthralled by his
shrine. She left flowers at the reliquary once a week and prayed to him when
she needed guidance. I chided her once about praying to the saint of cripples
and lunatics, and she scolded me.

“He
is our saint, Eddie. He watches over all of Bodiam, including you and I. And he
will always keep us safe.”

I
think Elizabeth must have forseen the coming of this plague. For in these times
of madness, who better to guard us than the patron saint of insanity?

There
are thousands of holy relics in the world. Perhaps tens of thousands. I’m not
certain. All I know is that the bodies of saints and martyrs are stripped down
and divided like butchered cattle. Fingers and legs and ribs and hearts. Each
body part is carried off to a different corner of the world, to be prayed to
and adored.

A
monk at St. Edmund’s Bury once told me the difference between praying to old
bones and worshipping idols. Apparently, the bones of saints are not worshipped,
they are merely venerated. The difference between worship and veneration is
lost on me, but I am a simple knight. If the priests say that bowing before the
withered remains of a martyr is not worship, then who am I to say otherwise?