The Scourge (Kindle Serial) (16 page)

Gregory
the Wanderer tells us that he has “visited” cathedrals and priories all across
the east of England in his search for relics. The difference between visiting
and raiding is as murky to me as the difference between worship and veneration,
but I don’t challenge him. I leave that to Morgan.

“How
dare you steal relics from the houses of God?” Morgan says.

“I
have stolen nothing,” Gregory says. “The churches and cathedrals of England
have been abandoned. The holy relics would have been looted or vandalized long
ago if not for me. I only regret that I cannot travel faster, so that I may
save more of God’s treasures.”

“And
then sell them,” Tristan says.

“Selling
of relics is forbidden,” Morgan says. “The Code of Canon Law is very specific
about that, and about the permanent transfer of relics in general.”

“I
am not transferring anything in a permanent way,” Gregory says.

“No,”
Tristan says. “Only for eternity.”

“I
will guard them for eternity if I must,” Gregory says. “But I hope to find
others who would help me bear this temporary burden of guardianship. I would
gladly give some of these holy relics to other worthy protectors.”

“Would
you give some to us?” Morgan asks.

“If
I deem you worthy.”

“How
do we prove ourselves worthy?”

“That
depends. Do you have anything valuable with you?”

“We
have nothing of value,” I say. The conversation is running in circles.

“Can
you show us some of the relics?” Morgan asks.

“Course
I can,” Gregory says. “Course I can.”

The
old man removes two of the stakes from the back of his wagon and opens a hatch.
The hut is overflowing with his “relics.” He has a fingernail from St. George.
A lock of St. Becket’s hair. One of St. Cuthbert’s ears. The head of St.
Swithun. The shoulder bone of St. Alban. The hand of St. Audrey, and a tumor
taken from her neck. He rummages through a score of sacks in the back of the wagon,
drawing out withered body parts, sacred fabrics, cups, knives, jewelry, stones
from the Holy Land, and all manner of sacred items.

“Here’s
a lovely one.” Gregory holds up a desiccated lower leg and foot. “The leg of
St. Hermann.”

“My
mother prayed to St. Hermann,” Tristan says. “He was a cripple with bowed legs
and club feet. I’m fairly certain that leg did not belong to him.”

“Oh.”
Gregory stares at the leg. “I didn’t mean St. Hermann. I meant St.…St. Harold.”

Morgan
frowns. “St. Harold was a child. That’s a man’s leg.”

Gregory
studies the leg and tosses it back into the wagon. “I’m not certain about that
one.” He reaches into a sack and draws out a rotting head. “But this one is
most certainly St. Eustace. You know it’s a saint’s head because of the honey
odor that wafts from it. You smell it?” He thrusts it toward Tristan. “Smell
it. You’ll see.”

Tristan
recoils and makes a face. “Get that syrup-covered leper’s head away from me.”

“Thank
you, Gregory,” I say. Relics have great value in this new England, but I’m not
convinced that this old peddler has a single true relic among his collection.
Elizabeth waits for me in Suffolk, and Gregory wastes our time. “It’s time we
were off.”

“Wait.”
Morgan and Gregory say it together.

“I
don’t have anything to give you at this moment,” Morgan says. “But I will have
much in trade when I return home. What would you like for St. Cuthbert’s ear?”

“There
is no promise of a tomorrow,” Gregory says. “How can I be certain you are
worthy guardians if you don’t sacrifice anything now?”

“Sorry
to trouble you,” I say. “We have nothing.”

Gregory
runs his finger along the metal shaffron upon Sir Morgan’s destrier. The horse
shakes its head and bares its teeth. “I wouldn’t say you have nothing. I’ve
lost two horses to those wandering demons out there. This is a nice mount. And
with such lovely armor.”

“The
horse? You want our horse?” I laugh and wave Tristan and Morgan onward.

“Edward,
when will we ever have a chance to own holy relics?” Morgan dismounts. “This is
an extraordinary opportunity.”

“Morgan,
we need horses more than dead saints right now.”

“What
about St. Giles?” Morgan asks. “Doesn’t Elizabeth always pray to St. Giles?”

Gregory
rummages in his wagon and brings out a sword in a gilded leather scabbard.
“This weapon has a tooth from St. Giles in its hilt.” He draws the sword and it
glimmers in the dull light of the rainy day. I hesitate.

I
can see the tooth embedded in the wood of the grip. And though I’m certain it
does not belong to St. Giles, I can’t take my eyes off the sword. Gregory
smells blood.

“The
sword, Cuthbert’s ear, St. Alban’s shoulder, and one of my draft horses,” he
says. “For your warhorse and barding.”

My
moment of weakness passes. “You’re mad. That’s a prime destrier with full
barding.” I reach out to stroke the horse and it snaps at me.

“What
if I sweeten the offer?” He climbs into the wagon so only his booted feet stick
out, and rummages again.

“What’s
in those?” Morgan points to a wooden rack that holds a dozen ceramic phials.
Gregory backs out holding a pungent-smelling wooden cross on a leather thong.
He covers the phials with an empty sack.

“Those
aren’t for sale.” He holds up the cross. “But this, this is something truly magnificent.
Whittled from the wood of the True Cross, upon which Jesus was crucified. St.
Benedict used it to drive away demons.”

Morgan
covers his mouth and looks at me with eyes wide. I shake my head.

“Very
well.” Gregory holds up a finger. “You are a shrewd tradesman. I see that. But I
have something I know you will want. The most holy of all the relics in my
collection. If you give me the horse, then it is yours.” He reaches into a
velvet pouch at his waist and removes a small wooden box. He uses his head to
shield it from the rain and opens the little chest. A tiny piece of flesh with
a crude pane of glass above it lies on a strip of silk. “Behold: the foreskin
of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Tristan
opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. There are, apparently, no jokes
he can make. Or perhaps there are too many. He points to the foreskin and grins
at me.

Morgan
raises his clasped hands to the sky and looks to me. “Christ’s foreskin! Please
Edward.
Please
.”

“What’s
in the phials?” I ask.

Gregory
frowns and closes the box holding the product of Jesus’s circumcision. “I told
you, they are not for sale.”

“Then
neither is our warhorse.”

The
old peddler licks his lips. He glances toward the wagon. “Those phials are very
special. There were fifty of them shipped from Rome and I acquired a dozen of
them.” He uncovers the phials, takes one from the rack and holds it up between
his thumb and forefinger. “The blood of the Virgin Mary.”

“Oh
for heaven’s sake,” Tristan says. “You can’t be serious.”

“One
drop of this will…” Gregory hesitates and he glances at the wagon as if he wants
to put the phial away. “One drop of this will cure anyone afflicted by plague.
And if you are not afflicted, one drop will guard you against the sickness.”

Morgan
drops to one knee and crosses himself. “The blood of Mary! Oh, Heavenly Father!
Gregory, do you mean to say that if you drink one drop of that, you will not
get the plague?”

“You
will be protected…for one week,” Gregory says, licking his lips.

“Done.”
Morgan rises and holds his reins out. “Our Lord’s foreskin and six of those
phials, and the horse is yours.”

“Morgan!”
Tristan vaults off his horse and snatches the destrier’s reins. The horse pulls
and blows. I dismount gingerly, favoring my ankle, and take the destrier’s
reins too.

“Thank
you, Gregory,” I say. “Perhaps some other time.”

“Edward!”
Morgan holds his hands out. “A cure for the plague! The blood of Christ’s
mother!”

“I
don’t think that horse likes to be crowded,” Gregory says.

“Morgan,”
I say, “do you really believe — ”

The
destrier kicks its front legs upward, high and fast, and one of its hooves
comes down on my injured ankle. My vision blurs with the pain of it and I
scream. I strike at the horse’s neck and hurt my hand on the scalloped metal
plates.

“Take
the bloody horse!” I shout. “Take it!”

My ankle won’t bear
weight anymore. Tristan has to help me into my saddle. I glance at the
warhorse. Letting the beast go is probably not wise, but I might kill the
animal if we keep it for much longer.

In
the end we walk away with a foreskin, an ear, a shoulder, a hand, six phials of
Mary’s blood, a draft horse, a smelly wooden crucifix carved from the True
Cross, and a beautiful sword with St. Giles’s tooth embedded in the hilt.

We
nod our good-byes to Gregory the Wanderer as he whistles and secures the barded
destrier to his wagon.

“I
wonder where he will go next,” Morgan says.

“Depends,”
Tristan says. “Where is the nearest graveyard? He’ll need more bones to dupe
gullible fools.”

“Of
course,” Morgan says.

“Of
course what?”

“Of
course you don’t believe these are true relics.” Morgan shrugs. “You have no
faith, so they won’t work for you anyway.”

“Morgan,
that man is a fraud. That shoulder bone looks like it came from a cat.”

Morgan
stares at the large wooden cross that hangs from his neck. “You will see the
power of these relics. But you will not benefit from them, because you have no
faith.”

“You
are mad if you think that cross or any of these ‘relics’ are going to help. You
know what’s going to help? That sword Edward is wearing. We could have armed
and armored all three of us for that warhorse.”

Tristan
is right. The lure of holy protection has made me soft. These relics are not the
bones of saints, and even if they are, I doubt they will help. God has turned
away.

I
draw the new sword from its gilded scabbard and stare along the blade. I can
see the forging patterns in the metal. It is a fine weapon. Not worth a barded
warhorse, but it might just keep us alive. The tooth in the grip glitters under
multiple layers of pungent lacquer. If the molar truly belonged to St. Giles,
then I hope he remembers the flowers Elizabeth laid at his shrine. I hope he
will protect her. And Morgan and Tristan. And me.

I
gaze at the sword again and smile at the irony of seeking protection from the
patron saint of insanity.

In
these times of madness only St. Giles will save us
.

We
ride for another two hours, and it feels like my ankle throbs more with each
milestone we pass. I rub at it as we travel.

“Getting
worse?” Tristan asks.

“Not
getting better,” I reply.

“My
mother used to say that eating a spider dulls pain.”

“I’m
not going to eat a spider, Tristan.”

“I
wouldn’t either. So when I was a boy she would put a spider in a wooden box and
make me carry it with me in a pouch. She said my injury would get better as the
spider died. And that when the life left the spider’s body, I would be completely
healed.”

“Did
it work?”

“Never.
But she would always find a reason for why it didn’t work. Maybe I had taken
the box out of the pouch too many times. Or maybe it was the wrong type of
spider. Once she tried to convince me that the dried-out creature wasn’t dead
yet.”

The
three of us laugh. It has stopped raining and the sun is threatening to spoil
the endless damp.

“My
Margaret, God rest her soul, she had a mountain of superstitions,” Morgan says.
“Sara was born with the birth caul around her head. Margaret saved the caul and
made me carry it around with me everywhere I went. She said it would protect
me. Especially from drowning. Lost the thing a few years ago in Brighton,
though.”

“Well,
now you have a foreskin,” Tristan says.

Morgan
scoffs. “I tell you, Margaret didn’t speak to me for a month after I lost that
caul.”

“A
month?” I ask.

“Yes.”
Morgan smiles. “Made me wish I had another caul to lose when she started
talking again.”

We
laugh once more and Morgan wipes tears from his eyes. I can’t tell if they are
from laughter or from his memories of Margaret. She and her second baby died
during childbirth a year ago. Only he and his daughter, Sara, are left. Sara is
at home with her nursemaid, and I know Morgan must miss her. I pray my actions
don’t make an orphan of Sara

“She
did love to talk, Margaret did.”

“Don’t
they all,” Tristan says. “They say that Eve came from Adam’s rib, but I think
she must have come from his jaw.”

“Yes!”
Morgan laughs so hard that his horse shakes its head at the sound. “But I must
say, the talking was better than the silence. When she was angry with me, Margaret
wouldn’t speak. And no matter how many times I asked her what was wrong, she
would just say ‘Nothing.’ Just like that. ‘Nothing.’ But something
was
wrong. And if I didn’t figure it out quickly enough, something was going to be
even more wrong.”