The Scourge (Kindle Serial) (33 page)

We ride swiftly in the night, north along the Roman road, north toward Hedingham. Morgan breaks into a sweat two hours into the ride. I try not to think about what will happen if he changes while we are on the road.

We spot plaguers ahead of us, just visible in the night. Five or six of them staggering southward like leper pilgrims. The pallid moonlight makes them look ghastly. Ghastlier than normal, at any rate. Morgan studies them as we ride past and I imagine what the run of his thoughts must be.

We encounter more plaguers as we near Brantry, and there is no getting around these. There are scores of them upon the road and dozens more creeping through the fields and forests.

I spot a clear path to the east, along a patchwork of silvered fields and hedges, and we leave the Roman road. We lose an hour searching for a place to ford the River Brain, but we are able to give Brantry and its ghoulish denizens a wide berth.

“It’s getting worse.” Tristan trots his horse beside mine. “The farther north we go, the more plaguers we see.”

I nod. Morgan is sweating more. The back of his shirt slips against my breastplate, leaving beads of moisture on the metal. I feel an ache deep within me. Something razored running up and down my soul.

“How do you feel, Morgan?” I ask.

He looks back at me and nods. I think he is offering a smile behind the gag. His forehead shines with perspiration.

We rejoin the Roman road north of Brantry, then leave it again near a village whose name I can’t remember. Gosford, or Gosfield. I’ve passed it many times with Elizabeth but we have never stopped. Hedingham is not far away.

Tristan rides beside me again and takes my reins. I allow him to stop my mare and wait for him to speak. He doesn’t. He draws the bridle knife from his belt and holds it near Morgan’s throat. Morgan’s eyes widen.

“Have you gone mad?” I ask. Tristan slips the knife beneath the gag and cuts it away.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I’ve been watching Morgan,” Tristan says. “And we forgot one detail.”

Morgan nods. “Yes, we did,” he says. “Thank you, Tristan.”

“Will one of you let me know what detail you are talking about?” I ask.

“Oh yes.” Zhuri says, nodding. “We did forget a very important detail.”

“What the bloody hell are all of you talking about?” I ask.

Morgan leans to one side and vomits.

“Ah.” I clear my throat. “Yes. We forgot about that.”

The priory at Hedingham lies a few miles from Hedingham Castle, and farther still from the village center. We reach it an hour or so before dawn.

I remember now that this nunnery is devoted to the Virgin Mary and I fight the sudden notion that I am no longer in control of my fate. That I am an unwitting actor in a play scripted by God. A tragedy, of course.

Plaguers lurk near the small compound but there are not enough to give us trouble. The priory’s distance from the village seems to have kept the afflicted away. We cut our way through the eight or nine plaguers we see and reach the arched entryway. I expect tense moments in front of the doors, like we had at Chelmsford, but someone from the nunnery must have seen us coming. The doors open at once and slam shut behind us.

Two men-at-arms ask us to strip off our clothing so they may inspect us for wounds.

“I am plagued,” Morgan says.

The men leap back from us and level spears. One of them tells us we must leave at once.

“He is the only one of us that is plagued,” I say. “And I have a proposition for your prioress.”

The men-at-arms are uncertain about admitting a plaguer, but I will not be denied and they fear my threats and our cannons more than they fear a break in rules. They hold their spear tips against Morgan’s back as they lead us to the nunnery courtyard. I lean on Tristan and try to hide the extent of my ankle injury.

One of the soldiers runs to fetch the prioress while the other places his spearhead at Morgan’s throat. I push the spear gently away from Morgan. The man-at-arms glares at me.

“His hands are bound,” I say. “If he changes, there will be plenty of time for your spear. Give him dignity.”

Three women arrive in robes and gowns, their hair unkempt. One of them is taller and older than the other two. She scowls at me but her hand trembles as she clutches the collar of her robe.

“I am Margaret, the prioress here,” she says. “What is this all about? Does that man have the plague?”

Morgan kneels before the women and prays while I explain our situation. I tell them that he was once a priest, and that he is the most devout man I know. I explain that I am heading north to find the thighbone of St. Luke, in the hope that it will cure the afflicted. “If you take care of Sir Morgan until we return, we will bring the saint’s leg here first,” I say. The nuns glance at one another.

We are taken to a hall, and the prioress inquires about my limp as we walk.

“An injured ankle,” I reply. “I wasn’t bitten.”

The nuns leave us while we eat a thick but flavorless stew. Morgan doesn’t eat. He vomits again and I know we don’t have much time.

A young girl enters the room and binds my ankle tightly with a linen wrap as we eat. I stand and put weight on the foot. There is a jolt of pain, but it is tolerable. I thank the girl and she bundles up her supplies and leaves, blushing.

The nuns return before we are done with our stew, and Sister Margaret tells me that they accept the proposition.

“But you must bring the thighbone here the instant you recover it,” she says.

She doesn’t seem to mind the theft of a relic. Perhaps they assume that no one lives in St. Edmund’s Bury anymore. Or maybe they too have loved ones who need healing.

Morgan is escorted by the two soldiers down a set of stone steps to the priory’s wine cellar. Tristan, Zhuri, and I follow. The prioress and the two nuns join us.

An ancient, iron-hinged door of oak separates a storage room from the central wine cellar. The room is perhaps three paces deep. It is four paces wide, but casks along the walls reduce the width to an aisle, one pace across.

Morgan has to stoop to enter the room. He stands just inside the doorway and turns to face us. One of the nuns leaves a candle on a cask for him, then the others back away to let us say our farewells.

Morgan nods to Tristan and forces a smile. “Take care of yourself, heathen.”

“We’ll be back with the saint’s leg, Morgan,” Tristan replies. He flashes a tight-lipped grin, but his voice is strained. “You have faith in the saints. St. Luke will heal you.”

“Do you have faith, Tristan?” Morgan asks.

They stare at each other for a long moment. “I’m trying, Morgan. I’m trying, for you.”

Morgan slips the wooden cross from his neck and loops it over Tristan’s head. “When you find your faith, this will protect you.”

They embrace for a long moment, then Tristan strides away swiftly and stands with his back to us.

“Morgan…” My voice breaks. I wanted to say something comforting but all I can offer is sorrow. “Morgan.”

I pull him toward me and feel his shoulders shaking against my chest. “I am…Morgan, I…” Every sentence leads to a stone wall. There is nothing I can say to him.

He pulls away from me, wipes at his eyes and smiles. “Look in on Sara for me. Tell her Daddy will be home when he gets better.”

I keep my strength long enough to nod and offer him an unsteady smile. “Morgan, please forgi — ”

“Nothing to forgive,” he says quickly, then retches. He wipes at his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic. “This…this is just a trial. Another of God’s blessings.” He smiles again and raises his gaze upward, his eyes shining with tears. “Hallelujah.”

I let out a noise but I am not sure if it is a chuckle or a sob. “Hallelujah,” I say.

“Go,” Morgan says. “Find Elizabeth. Get the relic. Go away.”

“I’m going to stay, Morgan. I will be with you until…”

Morgan shakes his head. “I don’t want you to see this. I don’t want anyone to see it. Leave me. For God’s sake, Edward, leave me now. Please.”

I look into his eyes for a long moment, then embrace him one last time and turn away. “Zhuri, say farewell and let’s go.”

Zhuri shakes his head. “I am not going, Edward.”

I look at him and see tears in his eyes, too. What a sorry mess we are, the four of us. “What do you mean? He wants us to go.”

“I cut the witch’s bonds,” Zhuri says. “He got plagued saving me. This is my fault.”

“There is no fault, Zhuri,” I say. “If you look for ways to fault yourself, you will always find them. Intent is the true measure of fault. Now say farewell.”

Zhuri approaches Morgan and bows to him. “You sacrificed for me,” he says. “So I will sacrifice for you. When Edward and Tristan return, they shall find us right here, you and me. I shall stay here, in this nunnery, at your side.”

Morgan vomits. He looks back at Zhuri. “I…” He looks as if he is going to be sick again.

“It is no use arguing,” the Moor says. “I will be your guardian until you have regained yourself.”

Morgan shakes his head. “
I
,” he says. “They shall find us right here,
you and
I
.”

Zhuri looks stunned for an instant, then hugs Morgan fiercely. I don’t know if Morgan is right or not, but his humor brings the world crashing down around me.“Farewell, Sir Morgan of Hastings,” says Zhuri. The Moor bows once more. “Your God will return you to us. And I will guard you until he does.”

Morgan’s smile lasts almost long enough for Zhuri to close the door.

“Zhuri.” Morgan is muffled by the door, but his voice sounds like several people speaking at once. I remember Matilda sounding the same just before she changed. “Thank you, Zhuri.”

The three of us roll heavy barrels in front of the door. Sister Margaret climbs out of the cellar, followed by the other nuns and the two soldiers. Tristan looks back once at the door, then ascends the stairs as well. I give Zhuri my rushlight and walk slowly up the cold stone steps. Halfway up I hear a muffled howl from behind the door. Zhuri slots the rushlight in a wall bracket and turns his gaze toward the ceiling. He falls back against the door and slides down it until he is seated with his arms covering his head.

Something hard forms in my throat as I leave Morgan behind. I think about how we teased him throughout this journey. He bore it with grace and stoicism. He was a man of faith. He was the best of us.

And we are leaving him in the dark of a wine cellar.

In the morning, Sister Margaret gives us sacks of dried meat and bread, and makes us swear, upon the Bible, that we will bring the thighbone back to the nunnery. Morgan is in the wine cellar, and that is more incentive than any Bible oath, but I speak the words anyway.

Zhuri joins us as we break our fast, then we follow him back to the cellar, where we bid him good-bye. We pretend not to notice the mindless thumps coming from the oaken door as we climb the stone steps one more time.

I leave Zhuri his Spanish cannon and a half skin of powder for it. The nuns will appreciate the help in defending their home, and the gun will help keep Morgan safe until we can return with St. Luke’s thigh.

For a moment, as we pack the last of Sister Margaret’s food into saddlebags and check that the two remaining cannons are loaded, I think on the ridiculous aspects of what we are doing. We have paid for Morgan’s care with the bones of a man that died hundreds of years ago. I wonder at all the foolishness we have seen on this journey. The virtuous people of Meddestane neck deep in the Medway. Lord James and his collection of chained relatives. I think of the villagers from Danbury and their faith that the Virgin Mary would save them. Of the naked masses in the church at Chelmsford. They are people, all of them, who I assume were rational before the plague.

“Tristan, why do you think the virtuous people of Meddestane stood in the Medway?”

Tristan straps four torches to the harness of his horse. The torches are from Sister Margaret, in case we get caught out at night again. He looks at me from across his horse and shrugs. “I think the lot of them went mad.” There is no humor in him. His heart is with Morgan in that cellar. “Do you have thoughts on the matter?” he asks.

I tie down the flaps of my saddlebag before I answer. “I imagine that most of them were good, devout people. And being devout is a good thing. But this plague, it made drunkards of them all.”

Tristan climbs into his saddle and adjusts his position with one hand on the pommel. “I suppose that’s a good way of looking at it. Drunk with God.”

I climb into my own saddle. “I see nothing wrong with a mug of wine every night,” I say. “And, sometimes, the heat of brandy can give a man strength when it is needed. But a drunk is no good to anyone, least of all himself.”

I recall Tristan speaking of the absurdity of this new world we live in. But I think the absurdity was always there. It lies just below the surface of every civilization that has ever existed. This plague, it simply stripped the quilt from the bed of nails.

The warmth of the sun burns away my gloomy thoughts. There are few clouds above and the sky is a brilliant blue.