The Scourge (Kindle Serial) (32 page)

“You can’t just kill us!” Tristan says. “We must be tried!”

The knight with the burning thatch walks slowly to the cannon. He looks at the touchhole for a long moment. “Could…could someone else light it?” he says.

“You miserable coward,” Gerald says. “I should burn your bollocks off.”

“I will do it,” Isabella says.

The knight stares at her in horror. Gerald raises an eyebrow.

She realizes the misunderstanding. “Light the cannon. I will light the cannon.” She scowls at Morgan. “I will send those filthy knights to hell.”

Gerald sneers at his men. “A woman is more man than any of you.” He nods to Isabella. “When you are ready.”

Isabella takes the smoldering thresh from the knight. She looks at us and cackles. “You thought you could hide from the Lord? God is everywhere. He will find you, always. He will punish you for your sins.”

“Do you think it will mist today, Sir Tristan?” Gerald laughs, and Isabella laughs with him. But her laugh doesn’t end when his does. She continues to cackle wildly, and it is a testament to her eccentricity that even Sir Gerald looks at her as if she is mad. I struggle against my bonds, feel the yarn cut my skin.

“You will rot for this, Gerald!” I scream.

“It is you who will rot. All four of you. But your death, Sir Edward, won’t be as quick as theirs. I promise you that.” He nods to Isabella. The other knights walk forward to get a good view of Tristan’s upcoming and no doubt grisly death. Isabella cackles again and dips the burning thresh into the touchhole. Tristan winces and jerks his head wildly from side to side. I scream with all the fury that I have accumulated on this journey.

And the cannon fires.

The world is shattered by a metallic thunderclap and a cloud of smoke so thick that I can see nothing. The explosion is louder than any I have ever heard. So powerful that it numbs my extremities and renders me senseless for a time. There is only the sting of sulfur in my nose, and the ringing in my ears. But as the throbbing echoes of the blast fade, I begin to see. And what I see is carnage.

The cannon has exploded.

Dead and wounded knights lie in the mud. A knight pulls a bleeding comrade back toward the horses. Sir Gerald is dragged by two knights. Blood seeps from the seams in his battered armor. His face is burned and blackened, but his lunatic gaze rests on me. He is silent, but there is awareness in his eyes. Awareness and hatred.

There are only three uninjured knights. One of them shouts that Sir Gerald and Sir William need a surgeon. Gerald and the other wounded knight are both propped into saddles in front of their uninjured comrades and the five remaining warriors ride back toward the Roman road.

When the hoofbeats fade, a silence falls over us. The remains of three knights lie sprawled and twisted before us. Scraps of the metal cannon lie scattered and smoking in the mud. Morgan stares intently at one scrap by his foot. I follow his gaze and study the strip of metal. A single word has been scratched onto it:
matilda
.

I give thanks to God and St. Giles, then breathe a prayer for our Lady Matilda, who I imagine has exacted her revenge.

“We are…alive,” Zhuri says. He pants, and I spot a piece of metal jutting from his shoulder. “Thanks be to God.”

“Yes,” Tristan says. Blood runs thickly from one of his cheeks where a piece of the gun must have struck him. “God is everywhere.” He points with his chin toward a woman’s bloody shoe lying on the ground. “And so is Maid Isabella.”

We stand at our birches for a time, each of us working silently at his bonds. I wonder at our astonishing fortune. It is astonishing to such a degree that I cannot believe it is merely fortune. I don’t know if it is St. Giles, or the Virgin Mary, or the Angel Gabriel, but I know that we are under someone’s protection. And whoever it is that watches us no doubt takes orders from God.

Elizabeth often chided me for falling asleep during service. For sighing whenever Father Michael fell into one of his endless soliloquies about the Corinthians or the Epistles or whomever it was that Paul was always sending letters to. Or were the Epistles the letters? Maybe he sent the Epistles to the Corinthians. Who knows.

The fact is, I have tried to be a good Christian throughout my life, but I know I have wavered in my faith. It is said that God doesn’t like giving us proof of his existence, but his signs have buttressed my sagging faith.

I stare upward and pray.

Morgan speaks: “He’s not listening.”

I open my eyes and stare at him to make sure I didn’t misunderstand. He is calm. There is no emotion in his face.

“What did you say?” I can’t keep the shock from my voice.

“The Old Testament,” he says. “That’s where God lives. In that angry, vengeful world. Christians tried to make him a merciful, forgiving God, but it’s a lie. The New Testament is a beautiful quilt thrown over a bed of nails.”

“Morgan…” I try to think of something to say. “You don’t mean that.”

“What kind of God orders people not to kill, then asks them to kill?” A flush rises in Morgan’s cheeks. “What kind of God takes pleasure in confounding his worshippers?” His voice grows louder and his chest rises and falls with deep breaths. “What kind of a God guides you to your ideal woman, then allows demons to tear her from your grasp?”

Tristan looks past me and speaks to Morgan. “‘Can you fathom the mysteries of God?’” he says, and I recognize the verse. Prior David spoke it to Tristan that night in Aylesford. “‘Can you probe the limits of the Almighty? They are higher than the heavens. They are deeper than the grave.’”

I am not sure what stuns me more: Morgan speaking ill of God, or Tristan defending Him.

Tristan’s words, or the fact that they have come from Tristan, shock Morgan into silence. After a long moment, Morgan nods his head and finishes the verse. “‘But a witless man can no more become wise than a wild donkey’s colt can be born a man.’” He looks upward and I see the tears flow from his eyes.

“Course a donkey’s colt won’t be born a man,” Tristan says. “They go and kill the donkey after a man buggers it.”

Zhuri is the first to slip his bonds. He plucks the piece of metal from his shoulder with a cry, then picks up Morgan’s hunting knife from the pile that Sir Gerald’s men made of our weapons. The knife makes quick work of our bonds.

“Have you seen our horses, Edward?” Tristan asks.

“They scattered when the cannon exploded.” I roll my eyes heavenward. “Another blessing from God. Hallelujah.”

Tristan and Zhuri offer up halfhearted hallelujahs as we recover our weapons. “They probably ran up the road a bit,” Tristan says. “Too much forest for them to go anywhere else.”

We set off toward the Roman road on foot, with the first hint of night darkening the skies. My body aches from the last three days of traveling and fighting. I am exhausted from lack of sleep, and I could eat one of those masties in a single sitting if given the chance. But we are alive, and God watches over us, and I feel my spirits rise.

A bird of prey shrieks from somewhere in the forest, its cry thick with plague. Morgan doesn’t look up. I think he is pretending that he cannot hear it. I glance into the distant trees.

“There must be other afflicted hawks,” Tristan says.

I nod, but I hope the bird is Morgan’s. Perhaps it will get better. If this truly is a plague, then perhaps there will be survivors. In the old plague, the one of my childhood, not everyone afflicted died. Could there be survivors of this plague, too? Could some of its victims recover?

Tristan rubs at his arm while we walk. He does it too many times for me to ignore. “You get bitten?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “But the teeth never got through my mail. Just bruised.”

“Are you certain, Tristan? Let me have a look.”

He sighs and extends his arm, pulls the mail and gambeson sleeve back. He bears an ugly welt and nothing more. I nod and let him have his arm back.

“Allah be praised,” Zhuri says.

Morgan shrugs. “Not everyone who is bitten gets the plague.”

“Everyone who is bitten becomes afflicted, Morgan,” I say. He is in an odd mood. I hope he recovers soon.

“I thought I heard of a woman in Canterbury who was bitten and didn’t get sick.”

“Anyone who is bitten gets the plague, Morgan.”

We find my mare not far from the Roman road. My gun and Tristan’s ten-shot bombard still jut from her saddlebag. I don’t want to ride while the others walk, so I take her reins and lead her.

We don’t get very far before Morgan starts panting and asking for a rest. Morgan’s head can be a bit soft sometimes, but the rest of him is not. I look at him, but in the fading light all I can see is his silhouette.

“You get bitten, Morgan?”

“I’m just worn out,” he says. “Those dogs took the wind out of me.” I don’t take my eyes off him. He shrugs and offers a smile, but his eyes won’t meet mine. “Just tired,” he says.

Tristan takes hold of Morgan’s tunic and looks into his eyes. “Morgan, did you get bitten?”

Morgan doesn’t answer for a long while. He sighs and points to his left calf. “Got me on the leg. While I was wrestling with it.”

“You stupid shit!” Tristan pounds Morgan on the chest. “You stupid shit!” His voice breaks and he turns away from us. I, too, feel the sting of tears.

Morgan touches Tristan’s hand bombard. He studies it silently for a long time. “Quick and painless,” he says.

No one speaks for a moment. The enormity of what Morgan has suggested stuns me to silence. I find my voice.

“No.” I say, shaking my head violently. “The leg. St. Luke’s leg. It can heal you. It can heal you, Morgan.” The words come out before I can consider them. A rebellion of the tongue. I know a bone cannot heal this plague.

Morgan tries to argue but he must see something in my eyes, or perhaps my words have given him hope. “Tie me up,” he says. “To that tree over there. Tie me up and come back with St. Luke’s leg.”

“We will not leave you tied to a tree like a thief.” I strain to make my voice sound firm. I have killed Morgan. I have orphaned his daughter. I brought this upon him. I should have taken the warning when both Tristan and Morgan thought they were plagued. I should have sent them home. “There is a nunnery in Hedingham. They will help us. They will.”

Maybe it is a misunderstanding. Like thinking he had drunk from the phial. We are just confused. Morgan was not bitten.

Morgan thinks. “How long do I have?”

“I don’t know.” I take a deep breath. “A few hours. A day. It varies, I think.”

This entire conversation is a misunderstanding. It must be. I will shove Morgan and shout at him for scaring us once he tells us the truth. I will call him a bastard. I will say a hundred prayers. Please, Lord God. Morgan was not bitten. He cannot have been.

“Hedingham must be ten miles away,” Morgan says.

I nod. It is all I can do. The balance between tears and dignity teeters. He can’t have. God is watching over us. This is a mistake of some sort. Morgan was not bitten. I think about asking to see the wound, but I don’t want to see it. I don’t want the finality of proof.

“Then we should hurry,” he says.

I nod and take two more deep breaths. “Tristan, ride with Morgan to Hedingham. Zhuri and I will look for one of the other horses.” But as I speak, I spot a glint of moonlight reflecting from something metallic. Morgan’s horse canters to us, the Spanish gun catching the light. The horse stops directly in front of Morgan. I don’t question the occurrence. God is watching over us. Morgan was not bitten. He will be fine.

“He could change,” Zhuri says. His voice is barely a whisper. His gaze remains on the ground. “On the way, he could change.”

So we tie Morgan’s hands with strips of his tunic, then wrap more strips around his mouth.

“Morgan…” I can’t finish the thought. I can only stare at him and pray the falling night hides my brimming eyes. He puts an arm on my neck and draws me to him, until our foreheads touch. I close my eyes and think of hunting and battle and anything else that will take me from the brink of tears.

We ride toward Hedingham, Morgan in front of me on my horse and Zhuri behind Tristan on the other.

And as the last glimmer of daylight is smothered by darkness, I curse God. My moment of understanding arrives. There was no mistake. Morgan was bitten.