The Scourge (Kindle Serial) (31 page)

“You are horrible knights!” Isabella shouts. “Awful, dirty knights!”

Tristan leans in close to her. “You say such hurtful things, Isabella.”

I lean on Morgan as we walk toward the door. “You did the honorable thing, Morgan. The righteous thing.”

“Then why do I feel so awful, Ed? Why do I feel I have let God down?”

I pause at the doorway and dredge up an old memory. A nun speaking to me after my younger brother died. “Doesn’t the Bible say something about tribulations and how they are good for us?”

“‘Consider it a blessing, my brethren, when you encounter trials and ordeals,’” Morgan replies. “The book of James.”

I nod knowingly. “This is a trial, Morgan, nothing more. You have been blessed. And you will…reap God’s reward. And…and sit on a throne of glory. You will be at God’s right hand. That sort of thing.”

“You’re not very good at spiritual encouragement,” Morgan says.

“Not a bit.” I smile at him. “I spent too much time listening to Master Roderick and not enough time listening to Father Emeric. But I know that God didn’t want you to kill that woman. The Lord put you in front of her to test you. It was a trial, and — as James so eloquently states — trials are blessings from God.”

Morgan offers a weak smile. “God’s blessed us quite a bit on this journey.”

I smile back and speak through gritted teeth. “His kindness knows no bounds. Hallelujah.”

A shaggy, dun cow watches us from its pasture as we leave the cottage. The day is bright and my spirits are rising. On the morrow, I will be with Elizabeth. On the morrow. My heart quickens at the thought. It beats a fiery cadence:
on-the, mo-rrow
. A ship’s drummer, pounding out the confident pace that will bring him home.
On-the, mo-rrow
.

Tristan steps past us and walks to his horse. He carries one of the wooden racks with a dozen phials in it.

“What do you want with those?” I ask.

Tristan tucks them into his saddlebag. “I’m not sure. Just seems we should keep a few.”

“Nothing good can come from…” I trail off because Tristan’s gaze has drifted over my shoulder. I turn. The shaggy cow plods toward us.

“It’s just a cow,” Morgan says.

“That is not just a cow,” Tristan replies. “Look at its eyes.”

I see what he means now. Black, soulless eyes, rimmed in red.

“For Simon’s sake.” I draw my sword and sigh.

“No, wait.” Tristan approaches the cow. “I’ve always wanted to try this.”

“We don’t have time for games,” I say. “Kill the thing and be done with it.”

The cow picks up speed and angles toward Tristan. I look back into the cottage. Zhuri is talking to Isabella. “Zhuri, leave her and let’s be on our way!”

I will see Elizabeth soon.

On-the
.
Mo-rrow
.

I will kiss those long fingers.

On-the
.
Mo-rrow
.

I will latch onto her and never let go.

On-the
.
Mo-rrow
.

Zhuri walks toward the doorway. He can’t see Isabella’s face, but I can. My blissful thoughts fade. God is about to bless us again.

“Zhuri, look out!” I try to run toward him but my ankle blazes with pain and I fall to one knee.

Isabella lunges to the side and throws open the byre door.

“Die, filthy knights! Die!”

Her masties leap from the doorway. Three enormous, broad-mouthed, keg-bellied dogs spring at Zhuri.

Hallelujah.

Two years ago I was invited to celebrate St. George’s feast day at Arundel Castle. It was a grand affair, with harpers, minstrels, silver-rimmed bowls, and foods I had never heard of with names I could not hope to pronounce. The earl bought the largest bull he could find in Sussex and pitted it against two masties for our entertainment.

I remember the bull clearly: a humped, ebony giant with sharpened horns and boulder hooves. It was black death. I had never seen its equal.

The battle took place as we ate. I found a plate of lamb among the peacock-feathered meats and the vegetable pastes sculpted to look like fish. I remember starting on a leg of that lamb. And the masties, those vicious hounds, had the creature down and dying before my third bite.

The image of that savaged bull flashes in my mind as Isabella’s masties hurtle toward Zhuri. Their nails scrape at the threshed wood. The dogs are streaks. A snarling mass of snapping death. Nightmarish teeth framed in shadowy muzzles. Narrowed, dark-hooded eyes rimmed in red.

They are plague. They are black death. And they descend on Zhuri.

I try to take a step and fall again, the pain bringing tears to my eyes. The Moor has just crossed the threshold when the first dog leaps at him. Morgan bounds past me and slams Zhuri to the mud just outside the cottage.

The dog hits with enough force to knock Morgan to the ground. The second and third masties fly from the cottage and skid on the dirt as they track Zhuri. I lunge at one of them and grab a foreleg. The bones snap as I wrench with all my strength. The animal cries out and its whimper sounds like that of a normal dog. But there is nothing normal about its next cry. It lunges for my face. I turn my shoulder at the last instant and its teeth clatter against my spaulder.

A blood-soaked Tristan appears at Morgan’s side and pulls the first mastie by the ears. It shrieks and bites at his mailed arm.

One of the dogs rears on its hind legs and springs at Zhuri. It is taller than he is. Zhuri screams, clamps a hand around the creature’s throat and stabs it in the belly with Morgan’s knife.

I glimpse something else dashing from the cottage. Isabella. She runs to our horses. I have no time to stop her. I shove the injured mastie to the ground and limp toward the Moor.

Zhuri loses his balance and falls to the mud, still holding the mastie by the throat. The animal’s lips are arched back, exposing mottled gums and yellowed teeth. I raise St. Giles’s sword over my head with both hands and slam it down, screaming so loudly that it makes my throat raw. The blade cuts the dog in two and taps Zhuri’s belly before I can stop the swing.

Blood sprays from the cloven animal, but the beast doesn’t stop. It continues to thrash and snap its teeth toward Zhuri’s face. Bloody drool leaks from the animal’s mouth onto Zhuri’s neck. I shove the front half of the dog away from the Moor and slash at the creature’s head with my sword until the animal stops moving.

I glance back. The dog with the broken leg struggles to its feet and lurches toward Morgan. Tristan leaves Morgan’s side and stabs at the limping mastie with the bridle knife. Isabella rides off toward the Roman road.

Morgan still fights the first dog. I race to his side as he struggles with the monster. They are a whirl of teeth and hands and fur and beard. I drop my sword and grab the animal from behind. The creature is nothing but muscle and power. I fall on my arse and try to wrench the beast away from Morgan. Its teeth snap at his face. The dog’s bulk is almost impossible to move. Morgan groans as the animal’s mouth inches toward his neck.

There is a flash.

Everything seems to stop. Even time itself takes a breath.

I glance up. Tristan stands over the mastie’s head. The bridle knife is buried to its hilt in the animal’s skull.

Morgan closes his eyes. I fall upon the dog and pant.

Tristan looks at me and snorts. The dog’s arse is in my crotch.

“I won’t judge you,” Tristan says. “That’s for the Lord.”

“Can you ever be serious, Tristan?” I roll the dog’s body off Morgan with a grunt and rise gingerly to my feet.

“Fortunately for you, it wasn’t a horse,” Tristan says. “Although…” He studies the dog. “It’s about the size of a horse. I hope God has good eyesight.”

“Zhuri,” I call. “Excellent judgment in releasing Isabella.” I look toward the horses. Morgan’s is gone.

Zhuri sits with his hands in the mud, his legs stretched out in front of him. “I…I am sorry. I should have…” He shrugs. “I have learned a lesson.”

“So have I,” Tristan says. He glances toward the pasture. “Cows can only be toppled when they are asleep.” He stares at the mangled, shaggy corpse in the field. “And they are not easy to kill.”

“Isabella took Morgan’s horse,” I say. “And his cannon. I’m pleased that you made us load it, Tristan.”

“Wouldn’t want a lady riding into the country without protection,” he replies. “Morgan packed it to the brim with powder too. Should be a lovely and powerful shot when she ambushes us.”

“Hallelujah,” I say.

“Hallelujah,” Tristan and Morgan say together.

Zhuri stands slowly and brushes himself off. He helps Morgan to his feet and speaks: “Those dogs would have torn me to pieces in that cottage.”

Morgan stares toward the Roman road and tears brim in his eyes. His mood has changed swiftly. He was almost cheerful a moment ago. I realize just how anguished he is about sparing Isabella.

Zhuri takes Morgan’s hand in his and shakes it. “Thank you, my Christian brother.”

I clap Morgan on the shoulder. “Don’t mind the results. You did the right thing by sparing her. Let God punish her wickedness.”

“No, Edward,” Morgan says. “God wanted
me
to punish her wickedness. If it was a trial, I failed. So I will be cursed forevermore.”

“I don’t think God ever cursed anyone for showing mer — ”

One of the masties snarls and tries to sit up. Its body is shattered, mutilated by Tristan’s blade, but it jerks upon the ground and clicks its teeth together. I pick up the sword of St. Giles but before I can end its misery, something buries itself in the dog’s head. The animal grunts, then falls still. A crossbow bolt juts from its head. I hear soft hoofbeats on the dirt behind us.

I know what I will see before I turn. Another of God’s blessings is upon us. The only surprise is that Isabella rides with the eight armored knights.

Sir Gerald removes his helmet. “Someone should do something about the strays in this forest.” He points to the four of us. “Perhaps we should put them down.”

Sir Gerald’s men tie us to birch trees using the same yarn that we used to bind Isabella. He tries to grin, but the expression he manages is that of someone struck on the head and about to lose consciousness. I think he has grown more insane in the hours since we last saw him. The wound on his scalp is only partially scabbed. No hair will grow in that furrow again.

At least we left our mark.

“When you arrive in hell,” he says, “please tell Satan to whip you once in my name as he sears your flesh.”

“That makes no sense,” Tristan says. “Why would we tell Satan to whip us?”

“It matters not,” Gerald says. “You have followed Satan, so you will burn whether he whips you or not.”

“If we have followed Satan,” Tristan says, “then why would he punish us? Wouldn’t he reward us?”

“Silence!” Gerald says. “Keep that forked tongue in your mouth.”

“Satan doesn’t punish you,” Morgan mumbles. “Hell is everlasting fire. You burn just by being there, and Satan burns with you.”

“Oh,” Tristan says, “I see. In light of this, is there some other message you would like us to give Satan, Sir Gerald?”

Tristan is joking because he doesn’t understand the danger we are in. Sir Gerald means to kill us now. He wouldn’t have tied us to trees if he intended to take us to Hadleigh for a trial.

Gerald nods to one of his men and points to Tristan. The knight draws Morgan’s cannon from the saddlebag. Another knight uses a flint to set fire to a clump of thatch he pulled from Isabella’s cottage.

“You can tell Satan whatever you wish,” Gerald says. “Although you will have no head, so perhaps you will have to settle for gestures.” He looks to Sir Morgan. “What was it you said this cannon did to a plaguer? Turned him to mist?”

A knight takes a knee five paces from us, and the man holding Morgan’s cannon rests the barrel on the knight’s shoulder. Neither of the knights looks sure of what they are doing.

Tristan stares into the large cylinder and grows silent. His moment of understanding has arrived.

“I thought you were taking us back to Hadleigh,” I say, struggling against my bindings. The knights wrapped the yarn around my wrists too many times. The bonds might as well be steel. “Will we not receive a trial?”

“God has judged you already,” Gerald says. “I prayed that the Lord would guide me. That if He truly wanted you brought to justice, I would find you. And not a hundred paces later, this woman gallops up that old road, screaming about dirty knights trying to kill her.” He tries the smile again. “I knew immediately who she meant.”

I wait for one of the other three to correct his English, but none of them do.

Humor and hope die always together.

My foolishness has led to this. I should have ridden to St. Edmund’s Bury by myself. In my pride, I thought I could keep the others safe. I thought only of my need for assistance and not once of the obligation that would force them to say yes. I ask God to forgive me. I beg St. Giles to protect the others.

“We will start with Sir Tristan,” Gerald says. “I could come up with a reason that sounds sensible for why I have chosen you first, but I won’t lie; I simply don’t like you.” He runs a finger along the divot in his breastplate where Zhuri shot him. “And the Moor will go next.” He points to the knight with the burning thresh. “Dip the flame into the hole at the back of the cylinder. Keep the gun steady and pointed at his face. I want to see the birch red with his brains.”