Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) (17 page)

“Hello, John,” I say.

The man’s head jerks toward me. He looks into my face for a long moment before recognition flares in his eyes. “Eh-eh-ed-w-w?”

“Yes, it’s me, Edward.”

I nod to Belisencia’s father, the Duke of Lancaster.

I nod to my first commander and lifelong enemy.

I nod to John of Gaunt.

Chapter 20

I have spent most of my life hating John of Gaunt.

I challenged him to a duel three times and nearly came to blows with him twice.

I simmered in a prison for days because of him, and I have watched my kingdom slide into mismanagement because of his advice. He is the loudest of Richard’s advisors, and so the King has always done what he says.

But John of Gaunt is not so loud anymore. He makes tiny hisses with his breath and looks up at me, and I feel a surge of pity. Not even he deserves to rot here. I cast a sideways glance at the jailer, to see if he will put an end to the conversation, but he seems interested in our exchange.

“Did Richard tire of you, too?” I say.

He tries to speak, but no words come out, so he simply nods his head.

I have hated this man, and yet, at the end, what use is hatred? Our bodies turn to shit when we have passed through the bowels of life, and the spice of hatred only makes us smell worse.

“I’m sorry for all the trouble we have had between us, John. I know I am not blameless in our quarrels.”

He stares into my face, and I notice his eyes. They are gray, with no whites to them. I recoil and look to the jailer, who laughs.

“Is he plagued?” I say.

“Hard to say,” he replies. “He’s headed there, anyways. Takes weeks to turn once you’ve been legged.” The jailer stands and thrusts his torch through one of the iron squares, illuminating the tiny cell.

And I see, for the first time, John of Gaunt’s legs.

He is a skeleton from the waist down. His legs are nothing more than bones, with wisps of black, rotting flesh, and brittle tendons holding those bones together. His hips, just visible beneath the shredded white robe, are swollen, pustulant, and so rotted that he left a trail of sludge when he crawled to the gate.

“What. . . what have you . . .” I cannot find a question to adequately address my shock.

The jailer laughs again, and the soldiers join him. He points toward the cistern. “Thirteen rotters in the hole. Hungry rotters, they is.” Sparks erupt from the torch as he pulls it from the cage and raises it toward the ceiling. A pulley hangs over the cistern. A rope dangles from the pulley.

Dear Mother Mary
.

They will dangle me in the pit and let the plaguers eat the flesh from my legs.

Two soldiers lunge forward and take hold of me. I struggle, but my hands are bound behind me. They hurl me to the grimy floor and pin my shoulders down. My face slides in the cold gore. Two other soldiers take hold of my legs. I howl and kick and try to free myself but the soldiers know their work. They have done this before.

Tristan and Morgan shout and rattle their chains while Zhuri calls down Moorish curses upon them. The jailer slips a loop of thick cloth around my thigh, pulling it high against my hip, then slips a wooden dowel between the cloth and my skin. The muck from the floor seeps through the itchy robe and chills my shoulders as I thrash against my captors. The jailer twists the dowel in the cloth, tightens the loop until the pain is excruciating.

“Wouldn’t want you to bleed out and die too soon, would we?” he asks.

The jailer loops a second cloth around my other thigh and twists until my leg is numb. He binds my ankles together with a scrap of rope. The soldiers stand me up, carry me toward the cistern. I lunge against them. Bellow and curse. I scream Elizabeth’s name. But I accomplish nothing. They know their work.

One of the soldiers unwinds a rope from a bracket affixed to the rear wall. It is the same rope that dangles from the pulley. Tristan spits at the soldier and earns himself a kick to the stomach. The jailer uses a pole with a hook on one end to snag the knotted end of the rope that hangs over the cistern. The soldier with the forked beard slips the rope under my arms and knots it tightly.

“Richard wants you to live for a long time,” The soldier hisses in my ear. “You and the Duke of Lancaster can share a cell.”

“You will burn for this!” I shout. “You will burn!”

The difficult work is over, so most of the soldiers leave the room, hands over their noses. Only four men stay behind, and two of these pull on the far end of the rope. I am hoisted into the air, the pulley squeaking like an injured rat. I flail, knowing it is useless. Knowing that I will die at the hands of the afflicted people I am sworn to protect.

I swing back and forth over the cistern, spinning slowly in the air. The rope digs under my arms. Faces look up at me from five feet below the lip of the cistern. Bloody, black faces with bleeding boils and shattered teeth. Packed so tightly they can scarcely move. A forest of skeletal hands reach up. Their hisses are like a woman’s tears on burning brimstone.

The soldiers let out the rope slowly, and I descend. I kick my bound legs violently, so that my swinging becomes more pronounced. The jailer reaches out with the hook and steadies me. He knows his work.

“A curse on all of you!” I shout. “God is watching!”

The chains rattle against the far wall as Morgan, Zhuri, and Tristan struggle to free themselves. The fat jailer laughs and shoves me with the hook, setting me spinning. The room passes me in flashes.

My companions yanking at the chains . . .

Black hands gripping cell bars . . .

The jailer grinning . . .

Four soldiers watching me as they slowly let out the rope . . .

The first hand touches my foot. Jagged nails scrape against my flesh. I do not think nails can spread the plague, but I curl my knees to my chest anyway. My shoulders tilt back. Plaguers grab the hem of my robe and heave. Fabric rips. I dip lower still. A cold hand brushes my back. I roar and kick downward with my legs.

A shout rings out across the dungeon, and it is not mine.

Tristan is free. He and the jailer scuffle near the cistern.

Tristan is free!

Inexplicably, the soldiers pull me upward. Up, toward God. Up toward Heaven. Up, away from the grasping, hissing mob.

I am saved!

The rope goes slack, and I plummet.

Down toward the plaguers. Down toward death. Down toward Hell.

I am damned.

Chapter 21

The scream that bursts from my throat is like none I have ever made.

An instant later I realize that the scream is not mine.

I do not land on clawed fingers or snapping jaws. I land on a bucking raft of blubber and wool. A jerking, howling raft of dying jailer. The fat man is in the cistern. He lies upon the hands and faces of the plaguers below. And I lie upon him.

The world shakes and pitches. A bloody scrap of torn fabric tumbles through the air.

I am alive.

The rope digs under my arms again, and I am lifted clear of the cistern. They are pulling me out.

Two soldiers haul at the rope. Another chases Tristan around the cistern. The last guard lies on his stomach at the edge of the pit, reaching down with his hand. A torch at the edge of the pit illuminates the dying man below me. He gurgles and spasms, facedown atop the sea of plaguers. His arms flail and claw for the soldier’s extended hand, but the plaguers will not relinquish their meal. They scrape and rend and bite. The fat man tips to one side and sinks, like a fleshy barge, into the grasping sea of plague. The jailer’s blood spatters bright red among the greys and blacks of the afflicted horde. One of the fat man’s hands reaches up from the depths of the Hellish cistern, fingers clawing at the side of the pit. But the plaguers know their work. They show no pity. Only pain.

A pinched voice rings out across the dungeon. “What happens here, now? What do you do?”

I swing my shoulders so that my body spins toward the door. Pantaleon di Alessandria stands just inside the dungeon, fingers pinching his nose. “Are you not have the sanity? What is you do here?”

Tristan and the soldier chasing him stop running. The men holding me over the cistern turn to look at the Italian. There is a long pause before someone calls back.

“They killed Sandre! Threw him into the pit.”

“I am not care what they kill!” Pantaleon shouts. “I care in what is you do! Why is prisoner not with the chains? Why he is run?”

“I thought Richard wanted to leg you,” one of the soldiers asks.

“King Richard, he say he sorry. And he cherish me again. So, you speak at me. What is you do here?”

Silence is the only response. Tristan stands upright and looks at me. Pantaleon shakes his head.

“Take
Cavaliere
Edward outside the rope. Your Majesty, King Richard, wants that he may put them in question.”

The soldiers remain silent for a long moment. “Pardon?” one asks.

“Take the Edward away from the rope and let all him and the men meet the King.”

“They’ve . . . they’ve met him already,” the soldier replies. “That’s why they’re here.”

“For the love of Heaven,” I snarl. “Let me down. King Richard wants to speak to us.”

I visit John of Gaunt’s cell while the soldiers free Morgan and Zhuri from their chains. My hands have been bound behind me again, so I kneel awkwardly in front of the cage. My old enemy winces when he sees me, or perhaps it is his attempt at a smile.

“Eh-Ed-w-w. . .”

“I am sorry for what happened to you, John.”

“H-heh-Henry.”

“Henry?” I ask.

He nods. “Heh-Henry. T-t-tie-tite. . .”

“I don’t understand, John.”

“Rich-Richard . . . t-took way t-t . . .”

“I’m sorry, John. I can’t make out what you are saying.”

Tears brim in his eyes. He scowls and shakes his head, then lets out a long breath. “P-pi-pity. P-p-please.”

I glance toward the door. Pantaleon is outside, face averted from the stench. I look toward the soldiers. They face Zhuri, who still has one hand bound. I turn back to John and nod. He thrusts his head through the iron bars. I stand, raise one foot, and do what I have wanted to do for twenty years. I break John of Gaunt’s neck.

And it brings me no pleasure. Only pain.

When my companions are free from the manacles on the wall—and their hands bound behind them again—Pantaleon advises the soldiers, in his mangled English, to report the jailer’s death to the constable.

One of the soldiers—the one with the forked beard—taps two of his men on the chest, and they hustle out of the room.

“Tell him Sandre was responsible for the prisoner that got free!” the blond soldier calls after them. “He was the one who manacled him! The fault was Sandre’s!”

The Italian picks up the fallen torch and looks into the cistern, shaking his head.

“Sandre was having many keys,” he says. “You are getting the keys, or Richard will to scream upon you.”

The two soldiers peer into the cistern, and Pantaleon shoves them in. Their screams are three parts terror and one part shock of betrayal.

The Italian whirls to face us, his cloak whipping around his shoulders. “There is small time to run! We go now! With many quickness!”

I exchange glances with my companions and nod my thanks to the Italian.

And we go. With many quickness.

We walk back swiftly along the dark underground passageway.

“Well done in there, Tristan.” I say.

“No thanks are needed.” He is pleased with himself. I can tell by his smile. “But I expect I won’t hear any more lavender jests.”

“Slippery wrists,” I say. “I may start using that salve myself.” But I know I will not. Because my time on this earth is almost done. Elizabeth cannot be cured. I will give myself to Hell, and let Satan distract me from my agony.

We hustle up the winding stone staircase and through a door leading to the upper prison. Empty cells line both walls here. A porter paces near the door leading outside, rubbing his hands together. He draws a dagger when he sees us, his eyes wild.