Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) (15 page)

Sir Gerald can’t have more than a hundred men with him.

Richard stares out toward the field with half-lidded eyes.

“How many French widows did my father make?” he mumbles.

I take three deep breaths. Elizabeth tells me I should do so whenever my temper threatens to overwhelm me. “He made an immeasurable number of widows, Your Highness,” I reply. “The convents overflowed.”

The king leans back and his jaw tightens. “And how many towns did he burn?”

“Hundreds, Your Majesty,” I reply. “France lost the warmth of the sun for all the smoke.”

He turns to me, his breath coming in ragged bursts. His hand grips the goblet so tightly that the thin rim bends. “How much French blood did my father loose?”

“Enough to turn the Seine red for a year,” I reply. “Enough to drown every French son of a whore three times over, your majesty.”

His eyes shimmer, then tears course down his cheeks like French rivers. He wipes at his face with a bloodstained hand, takes hold of my cloak, and yanks me close to him. “Then why,” he snarls, “did the King of France proclaim a day of mourning when my father died?”

My eloquence dies.

“Tell me Edward. Why did King Charles parade through the streets of Paris with five thousand horsemen, in my father’s honor? It is a mystery no one has ever bothered to explain to me. The Black Prince killed tens of thousands. So why did the men and women of France weep in the streets at the news of his death?”

I am trapped by my own words. “I . . . your father . . . your father was a very special man.” Edward had a grace to him that I have never known in another man. He was the embodiment of chivalry, and even his enemies loved him.

Richard shoves me backward and turns toward the jousting field again. “What will my own people do when I die? Will they even notice, Edward? Will they weep in the streets with joy? My reign was never meant to occur.” He sweeps a hand to encompass everything beyond the walls of Framlingham. “England was ready for a golden age. My grandfather was nearly dead and the greatest Englishman ever to live was going to take up the crown. Edward, the Black Prince! And what happened, Sir Edward? What did they get, instead?” His next words hold so much anger that I flinch from them. “They got
me
.”

He downs the wine in his goblet and hurls it clanging along the benches. I feel a touch of despair, not at the king’s words, but at the memory of Edward’s death. Richard is correct. No man, alive or dead, could have filled the chasm left in our hearts by the Black Prince. I touch my chest and feel the bulge of Elizabeth’s cure beneath my gambeson.

“I am a crowned heartache, Edward,” he says. “I am a dead prince’s shadow.”

“You have the chance, Your Majesty, to be a greater king than any in our history. We are facing calamity, and Your Majesty will shine.”

He glances at me, and for a moment I fear he will make me sing again. I finish the wine in my goblet.

“My marriage is the only great thing I have ever done,” he says. “I married a saint, Edward. A woman loved by everyone. She is the only reason the people tolerate me.”

“That is not true,” I consider each word carefully. “You are young and they are unsure of you, perhaps, but you are their king. They wait for you to save them, Your Majesty. If Queen Anne is loved, then let her be your strength as you lead England out of these dark times. Let her be the hunger in your belly.”

He laughs, and the madness returns to his eyes.

. “No Edward, I will not do that.”

“Why not, Your Majesty?”

“Because. . .” His voice catches and he becomes silent for a long moment. “Because Queen Anne is now a part of these dark times.” He takes a long, rattling breath. “She is no better than a Scot now.”

So many wives lost to this plague. We are wolves with no hunger, hiding behind stone and subsisting on grief. It is no wonder there is so much madness in the world. I touch the bulge of Elizabeth’s cure again. Richard’s wife, the Good Queen Anne, is plagued. It is a tragedy, and yet, I see fortune as well. Opportunity.

“I am truly sorry,” I say.

Richard seems to grow smaller as I watch. “God took her from me, Edward. He is punishing me. I think even the Lord wanted my father to rule.”

“God hasn’t taken her,” I reply. “This is test. A test of your faith.”

“Hallelujah,” Tristan mutters.

“You can bring Queen Anne back,” I say. “There is a cure for this plague.”

Richard shakes his head slowly. “There is no cure, Edward. This is God’s Wrath. And only God can lift it.”

I point to Morgan, who stands, cowled, behind Richard. “Sir Morgan’s plague was lifted.”

Morgan draws his hood back, revealing the deep, glistening wound on his jaw. Richard studies him without expression.

I have three cures left. Elizabeth’s hangs from my neck, and the other two—one from the alchemist and one that Zhuri gave me—are stashed in a poke at my belt. I draw out one of the ampoules and set it on the arm of Richard’s throne.

“There is a cure.”

Richard looks from Morgan to the ampoule. “What sort of cure?”

I pretend to drink more wine from my goblet. This is where things fall apart. God and science live in warring kingdoms.

“It is an alchemical cure,” I reply.

He sits upright and hisses. “Alchemy? That is the devil’s work.”

“Christ was an alchemist,” I reply. “He turned water to wine. And Moses was a sorcerer.”

“So sayeth the Lord,” Tristan says.

“The Lord never said that,” Sir Simon replies.

Richard picks up the ampoule and peers at it, glances at Morgan.

Sir Simon leans forward, shaking his head. “Your Majesty, surely you aren’t considering this. Alchemy is sinful.”

I think about the young woman searching for the arrow when I first met Simon, and wonder how he can speak of sin. “If this scourge was God’s doing,” I say, repeating the words of Father Peter, “then only God can undo it. And if this cure heals the afflicted, then God wants us to have it.”

Richard taps the ampoule against the throne nervously, licks his lips. “If I give this to my queen, she will return me?”

“God will bring her back,” I reply.

Sir Simon shakes his head. “Your Majesty, I do not think this is wise. God punishes alchemists and sorcerers. And he will punish you if you turn to such evil measures.”

Richard laughs again, the wild laughter that truly shows his madness. He wipes at his eyes and gestures with both hands to the entirety of the lower courtyard. “Look around you, Simon. We are in Hell already. What more can God possibly do to us?”

“He can deny you Heaven, Your Majesty,” Simon replies. “Do not throw away an eternity with your queen. What is that verse? ‘All flesh is like grass and grass withers . . . I can’t remember.”

“‘All flesh is like grass,’” Morgan recites. “‘The grass withers, and the flower falls, but the word of the Lord remains forever.’”

I stare at Morgan. He shrugs.

Richard strokes his lower lip with a forefinger. He glances at Simon, then at me. No one speaks for a long time. Tristan whistles a cheerful tune.

Finally, Richard sits up and nods. “If God did not want me to heal my queen, he would not have brought the cure to me.”

“We don’t know if that is a cure,” Simon replies. “We don’t know what that is.”

Richard clasps the ampoule in his fist. “Simon, my queen is plagued already. She cannot get any worse.”

Tristan clears his throat. “Actually—”

I throw my empty goblet at him and he shuts his mouth.

Chapter 18

The king leads us through the lower courtyard and into the castle. He picks up his pace with each step, and by the time we are in the inner courtyard, he is sprinting and laughing.

“There is a cure!” he shouts. “There is a cure!”

I chase after him, my companions close behind. Sir Simon and a dozen soldiers stream behind us like a military parade. Richard holds the cure between thumb and forefinger, high in the air like a holy relic. He runs high-legged, like his prancing horse. “
There is a cure
!”

Zhuri runs at my side. “He’s mad!”

“That he is,” I reply.

“And this is your king? This is the man you have sworn allegiance to?”

I shrug and pick up my pace. “Men will follow anyone.”

We sprint through the castle bailey to a chapel that juts from the eastern wall. Two pikemen stand aside as the king yanks open a thick, iron-hinged door. Richard scurries inside and the pikemen clash their staves before I reach the door.

“Let them in!” Richard calls, his voice fading and echoing in the chapel. “Let them all in!”

The pikes part and I step through the open doorway.

Richard runs through the knave of the sparse chapel, but I do not follow him. I draw up short just inside the doorway and am bumped from behind by Zhuri. He gasps and the sound echoes to the high ceiling.

There is little to the chapel. Arched windows. Corbelled pillars. An ancient font. And, hanging from a cross above the altar, writhing and hissing and painted a hundred colors by stained-glass sunlight, is the queen of England.

Anne of Bohemia, known as Good Queen Anne for her unwavering support of the common people, has been crucified.

“Bring her down!” Richard shouts. “Bring her down!”

Soldiers run to either side of the chancel and untie knots from two thick ropes coiled around iron brackets. The men, in groups of threes, slowly let out the ropes, grunting as they lower queen and cross to the flagstones.

Queen Anne was a lovely thing when last I saw her. Soft-spoken and blonde, polite and pretty.

She is still blonde.

The queen shrieks and thrashes upon the cross. Her cries echo in the church like a Hellish choral solo. Bleeding boils mar her face. The skin of her fingers and forearms is completely black, as is the flesh around her lips. And her eyes are the soulless dark of eternal anguish. But someone has cared for her. Someone has dressed her in a shining dress of blue silk. Her hair has been plaited with meticulous patience, curled around her ears and wrapped in a brocaded veil.

Richard gazes at her with adoration. I stumble back a step and recall Lord James of Dartford—a mad nobleman who removed his wife’s teeth and kept her tied to a wall with silk ribbons.

“You are certain about this?” Richard asks me. “This cure?”

“I will give my wife the very same cure,” I reply.

There is no greater certainty than that.

“This is a mistake!” Sir Simon shouts. “God is watching!”

Tristan looks upward and waves. “Hello!”

Feet shuffle on the flagstones behind me. Curious lords and ladies file into the chapel.

Anne shrieks and lunges against the padded cords that bind her. The wooden cross rocks from side to side, drumming against the stones. Richard leans over his queen and hugs her waist, strokes the silk dress. “All is well, my puppy. All will be well.” He glances up at me. “How. . . how is it done?”

I look to Zhuri.

“Tip the ampoule into her mouth,” he says. “And hold her jaw so she cannot spit it out.”

Richard studies Zhuri. I believe it is the first time he has noticed the Moor. “Who in God’s Kingdom are you?”

“I am a friend to Sir Edward, and to you, Your Highness.” He waves with exaggerated friendliness. “Hello!”

“You are a Moor!”

Zhuri feigns astonishment. “Allah be good! So I am.”

Richard looks to me.

I shrug. “So he is.”

Sir Simon gestures angrily toward Zhuri. “Your Highness, he is a heathen!”

“He may be an infidel,” Morgan replies, “but he’s no heathen.”

Zhuri sighs. “Thank you for that fervent defense, Morgan. I feel much better.”

“Do try to get your denominational insults straight, Simon,” Tristan adds.

The king gives Zhuri a last look, then turns back to Queen Anne and places a hand behind her thrashing head. The tears shine in his eyes again. “Edward, if you bring back my wife, I will grant you anything you wish. Anything at all.”

“I wish only that Good Queen Anne be returned to us,” I say. “So my king and the people of England can rejoice in the passing of her affliction.” I lick at my lips. “And, perhaps, some help reaching my own wife, Your Majesty.”

Richard nods. “You shall have two hundred men at your disposal, Edward.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” With two hundred men, I will cut through Sir Gerald’s men like a spear through butter.

“And I will make you the new marshal of England!” Richard stares at his wife and licks his lips. He studies the ampoule closely, then gazes again at his wife.

“I helped him get that cure, Your Highness,” Tristan says.

“You made me the marshal of England, Your Highness,” Simon interjects.

Richard waves him off. “Everyone will be amply rewarded and happy. Now lend me some assistance!”

I kneel next to the cross and hold Anne’s jaw. She bucks and howls, and her teeth snap shut, nearly catching my fingers. I take a long breath and look at Tristan, who looks back with wide eyes and shakes his head.

“Hold her still!” Richard shouts.

I take hold of her jaw again, carefully, and clamp a hand over her forehead. My palm slides on a bloody boil. Richard breaks the ceramic tip of the ampoule.