Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) (13 page)

The soldier points a finger at me. “You are in a mighty heap of trouble, sir.” More soldiers round the corner, some with spears, some with drawn swords.

I cannot escape them. Nor do I want to. I swore to the Carpenter, upon the cold stones of a priory, that I would defend the afflicted. And I have kept my word. I am the champion of the dead.

The soldiers advance, but I do not fear them. They will take me into the castle and Richard will speak with me. I will explain why I stopped his exhibition. I will tell him about Elizabeth, about the oath I made, and the cure that exists. And, together, he and I will repair this broken land.

I hold my hands up, palms outward, so the men understand I will go willingly into their custody. I smile so they know I am calm.

A familiar face appears among them.

“Put him in your arms!” The Italian mercenary pushes forward. “Put him in your arms, and kill him! Kill him
with many blood
!”

The soldiers advance.

I stop smiling.

Chapter 15

The Italian surges forward and swings his short sword into the air. The steel gleams. His face twists as he primes for the strike, but the blow never falls, because thirty heralds shatter the sky with their trumpet song. The sound is louder than cannon fire. The soldiers fall back from me and stare toward the trumpeters. The Italian looks too, his sword still high above his head.

The king stands at the center of the jousting field, watching us with crossed arms.

It is not the wisest or bravest or even the most sensible who lead; it is the loudest. Every person in the lower courtyard stares at Richard silently.

When the fanfare ceases, there is only the sound of plaguers pounding upon the doors behind us, and the clank of the soldier’s sword in the bracket.

The king stalks across the field toward me, the tip of his sword carving a long, rattling line in the earth. His body is rigid. The smile is gone. He passes the kicking body of his dying horse and halts a few paces from the trench. Jams his sword into the ground.

His voice is a winter morning. “Bring him to me.”

The Italian shoves me onto the planks. I hold my hands out to the sides again and walk across the trench, toward the King of England.

He studies me for a time, squints. “I know you.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“No!” His anger startles me. “I am a king! You will address me
properly
.” He draws his sword from the clay and points it at the Italian beside me. “Tell him, Pantaleon.”

“The King, he want that you call him ‘Your Majesty.’”

I stare at the Italian. “Your Majesty?”

“Also he does to allow, ‘Your Highness.’”

The titles sound garish to my ears. Like something a doting minstrel might sing to his master. I have heard it said that Richard is fond of poetry and music, but this seems infantile.

I bow toward the king. “Your Majesty.”

He looks into my face for a time, then waves the sword at me. “Sir Edward. Sir Edward of Dallingridge.”

I bow once more. “Yes, my . . . Your Highness.”

“What are you doing on my tilting field, Sir Edward?” He rests the sword on his shoulder.

“Your . . . Your Majesty.” The title sticks in my mouth. “These wretched creatures you slaughter are the people of England. I swore an oath, to you, Your Highness, and to God, to protect them.”

The stable doors thud, and moans rise from inside. There is no other sound in the courtyard. Richard stares at me with no expression at all, and I shift under that gaze. A plaguer howls. The twisted, high-pitched inhalation common to all of them. The king glances at the stable, and laughs.

It is a reckless laugh. Unfettered and entirely inappropriate. He doubles over with laughter, covers his face with one arm, and slashes at the air with his sword. Ice forms deep in my chest. This is not the king I once knew. I understand, in that moment, that Richard is plagued. The walls of Framlingham are thick as mighty boulders and high as ancient oaks, but there is no fortress strong enough to keep out the third plague. The scourge of madness.

King Richard has lost his mind.

“That sounded . . . that sounded quite dashing, Sir Edward.” Richard wipes at his eyes with his fingers. He points with the sword toward the stable. “Shall we speak with those people of England? Invite them to feast with us? Will you take one as a lover?”

I clench my jaw and stare forward, think about the two-hundred men I need to reach Elizabeth.

“If those are the people of England, then my kingdom is a sad one, indeed. Tell me, Sir Edward, do you think my kingdom is a sad one?”

“There is no kingdom greater than yours, Your Majesty.”

He rests the sword on my shoulder, the edge of the cold blade touching my neck. “So you agree that the creatures in that stable are not the people of England.”

I do not like speaking with kings.

“Why the silence?” Richard removes the sword from my shoulder and waves it as he speaks. “My question is simple. If England is the mightiest kingdom, then how can those things be its people?”

I take a long moment to collect my thoughts.

“All kingdoms suffer calamity,” I reply. “It is how we react to calamity that makes us great.”

Richard laughs again. “Oh, but you are a clever one, Edward. Found your way out of that muddle didn’t you? And with such elegance. You sounded like a troubadour. Are you a troubadour, Sir Edward?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“I think perhaps you are,” he replies. “Or maybe you should have been. Sing those words, for me. The words you spoke about calamity.”

I look at him to gauge his sincerity, but I find only madness. “I do not sing well, Your Highness. And I do not have much time. My wife is—”

“
Sing for me
!” His shout echoes across the courtyard. There is no trace of good humor on his face, only fury. “Your king
commands
you to sing!”

I clear my throat. If I live, Tristan will make certain this moment hounds me for the rest of my days. The Italian chuckles at my side and I send a withering glance in his direction. I will kill him with many blood when this is over.

I do not truly sing the words. I warble them out, like a priest chanting at mass. Elizabeth heard me sing once, and she made me promise I would never do it again.

“
All kingdoms suffer calamity
.” I chant. “
It is how we react to calamity that makes us great
.”

Richard claps his hands and laughs. “You are right,” he says. “You are not a troubadour. I’m afraid I must command you never to sing again, Sir Edward.”

I bow my head to hide my distaste. “Your Majesty, my wife is sick. She is plagued and waits for me in St. Edmund’s Bury. I was on my way there when—”

“
Nowel, nowel, nowel
.” Richard sings an old minstrel’s song. “That is singing!
Nowel, nowel, nowel
.”

His voice is rich and well-tempered, but I do not have time for this sort of madness. I force myself to relax my clenched fists. “Your Majesty, please. . .”

He grins and sings more loudly, waving his sword to the tune. “
Out of your sleep arise and wake, for God has made for mankind’s sake . . 
.”

“Your Majesty, a knight and his men are trying to . . .”

“. . . a
ll of a maid who makes me knell, of all the women she is the belle
.”

I cannot help raising my voice as he continues to sing. “They’re trying to. . . They’re trying to keep me from reaching her!
I need your help, Your Majesty
!”

“
Nowel, nowel, nowel
.”

I stop talking and wait for him to finish, but he seems to tire of the song when I stop trying to compete with it.

A silence falls and in that silence, the Italian speaks.

“Your Highness, I make question to you?”

“Pantaleon de Allesandria, do you have a song to sing?”

The mercenary raises a hand in my direction. “This man, he put the harm on my face. I may be let to put death to him? He insult my body with the fists.”

“You want to kill Sir Edward?”

“With many blood, Your Majesty. With many blood.”

Richard takes a slow step toward the Italian. The humor drains from his face. “Sir Edward has been a loyal knight for as long as I can remember, Pantaleon. He has been just and true to me, even though some of his friends have not. He is my subject and my kinsman.” He touches the tip of his sword to the mercenary’s forehead. “Your words are an insult to my ears. An insult!”

The Italian takes a step back, flashes a convulsive smile. “I am . . . I am not want insult of you ears, Your Highness.”

“You have insulted them,” Richard replies. The ice is back in his voice. “Take him down below and leg him.
With many blood
.”

“No!” The Italian whirls away from the nearest soldier. “I do not meant I kill Edward. The language has many hardship for me. Please. Please!”

Richard waves him off. “I’m tired of you, Pantaleon. You are a bore.”

“Please!
Please
! Your Majesty! I make mistake!”

I try to feel good about the Italian’s fate, whatever that fate is, but I cannot. Killing him in single combat would be satisfying, but to have him taken away on the whim of a madman is an injustice I cannot bear.

“My lord,” I shout. “
Your Highness
. I don’t know what legging is, but he does not deserve it. The Italian was making a jest. A jest we started while sitting in the benches, before you arrived. There was no real threat. We are friends.”

The soldiers pause and Pantaleon waves a hand toward me. “Yes! He talks what is true!”

Richard studies me. I cannot tell what he is thinking and that terrifies me.

He rubs at his bearded chin and smiles. “I have a proposal for you, Edward.” He points the sword toward the rattling oaken doors. “You believe those creatures in the stable are human. I know them to be demons.” He swivels the sword so it points to the mercenary. “You believe the Italian did not mean you harm. I believe he did. Let us put lance to our convictions. Three passes. If I am victorious, you stand by my side and we kill the plaguer demons and the Italian together. You will forget this silly business with your wife and remain here at Framlingham until I tire of you.” He swings his sword in long, lazy arcs. I wonder if everyone he tires of gets legged. I wonder again what it means to be legged.

“And if you are not victorious?” I ask, watching him carefully.

“If I don’t win, then my exhibition ends. You will have defended the good people of England, and saved a boring Italian mercenary.” He cocks his head as if remembering something. “Oh, and perhaps I will help you find your wife.”

Chapter 16

The lords and ladies in the crowd thunder their feet upon the benches. Some cup hands to their mouths and shout, others whistle and clap their hands above their heads. Perhaps they are glad that Richard has an opponent capable of striking back.

I sit upon a barded white destrier—a fine horse with a restless step. The stables are behind me, as is Pantaleon di Alessandria, bound and on his knees before a dozen soldiers.

The last time I jousted was in France, nearly five years ago. So much has changed since that tournament in Normandy. I touch the helmet upon my head. Richard provided a frog helm for the joust, and it is not comfortable. I can see very little and hear even less. The entire thing hangs suspended on my head by a web of leather cords intended to keep the steel from slamming into my face when struck by a lance. I suppose it is a clever invention, but I would have preferred my great helm.

Richard waits at the far end, on a long-legged, skittish grey charger. He looks across the field and raises his lance in the air.

Fire courses through my limbs. It has been too long since I stared down the list at an opponent. And what an opponent it is. My heart pounds. Not because I face the King of England, but because the King of England stands between me and Elizabeth.

Richard’s charger lowers its head and strains, churning the grass and rattling forward. The king is sloppy. Just a hair out of rhythm with his horse, but a tilt is a contest of hairs. The difference between a master of the lists and a dead man can be slimmer than the width of a blade of grass.