Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) (26 page)

“The justice?” Pantaleon offers.

“Too right,” Sir George replies. “Lawless men will find justice here. Wickham Market will be an island of law in the seas of tyranny.” He joins his men, who drag plaguers onto the grass, crushing the roses along the path. I nod to Tristan and walk quickly toward the village gate. The others follow.

“Where are you lot going?” Sir George snaps.

Tristan and I exchange glances.

“You said you wanted horses, didn’t you?” Sir George walks toward us, wiping blood from his mail with a rag. “I know where you can get them. But I’ll need something in return.”

“One day, I will find someone who does something for me out of simple kindness,” I reply.

“Not today,” he replies. “I need you to relay a message for me. Will you do that?”

“I have somewhere to get to, Sir George.” I will no longer tell people where I am going. “And I have to get there quickly. Who’s the message for? And what is it?”

“The message is for the Duke of Hereford. And don’t fret. I believe he’s more or less on your path to St. Edmund’s Bury.”

I breathe out a long sigh. Everyone seems to know where I’m going anyway. “Henry Bolingbroke? John of Gaunt’s son?”

“Elizabeth of Lancaster’s brother?” Tristan adds.

“The very same. He’s back in England. The message is this: Wickham Market is with you.”

“What does that mean?”

Sir George reaches into the cuff of one of his boots. “It means that we will help him overthrow Richard.”

I stare at Sir George for a long time while he fishes in his boot. Henry Bolingbroke. I cannot escape that name. Something is driving me toward that man.

John of Gaunt spoke of Henry in the cells of Framlingham. And the king’s new marshal, Simon of Grimsby, asked me when we first met if I was with Henry. Even Richard asked about Bolingbroke after we jousted. Has he truly returned from France to overthrow Richard?

Sir George draws something out of his boot. “Tell him we could use some soldiers, if he can spare any. And when you see him, give him this. He’ll know what it means.”

I reach out my hand, and he places something small and cold in it. I hold it up and laugh. Sir George and the others look at me curiously, but all I can do is shake my head.

Gleaming in my hand, carved from the finest ivory, is a statuette of the Virgin Mary.

Chapter 31

Henry of Bolingbroke, as far as Sir George knows, is in Stowmarket with an army of two thousand men. About the same number of men that Richard has in Framlingham.

 The town of Stowmarket is less than ten miles away and directly on the path to St. Edmund’s Bury, and Bolingbroke will likely have hundreds of horses.

We recover our donkey and leave Wickham Market under Sir George’s unwavering gaze. One of the soldiers at the gate flashes the book of lewd verses at us and grins.

The heathlands around the village are vast and open. I tug my cloak tight around me and scan the horizon as we walk across the patchwork fields and tiny slopes of Suffolk. I think about Sir Gerald’s men. They were in this area a few weeks ago. Perhaps they hold a fortress nearby. If they come for us, we will never outrun them on foot.

It will take much of the day to reach Stowmarket without horses. I wonder if the king’s army has left Framlingham. Richard refuses to defend England from the forces of Hell, but he will lead two thousand soldiers to destroy my Heaven.

The land stretches away from us, tumbling lightly in sea-swells of brown and green, lush forests frothing in the distance.

Pantaleon picks up his pace so he and the donkey are beside Morgan. “In village,” he says, “the rotters get the scare of you.”

“I don’t have the faintest idea what you are saying, Italian,” Morgan replies. “I never have the faintest idea what you are saying.”

Pantaleon touches the cross at Morgan’s neck. “This. The rotters do not like.”

Morgan glances down. “Course they don’t. It is made from the True Cross upon which Jesus was crucified. It is a powerful relic.”

Pantaleon crosses himself and grips the artifact between his thumb and forefinger. He gazes at it with reverence and whispers: “Perhaps this is the paid for me?”

“Perhaps bloody not!” Morgan yanks the cross out of the Italian’s hands.

I think for a moment on Morgan’s relic. Plaguers recoil from it, much as demons would. But if the afflicted are not demons, then why would they fear the power of Christ? Could they be possessed? Could the weakness of a plague-ravaged body allow evil spirits to enter?

I am a simple knight. Such questions are beyond my understanding. All I know is that both plague and possession can be cured by the phial that hangs around my neck.

Sometimes.

Zhuri peers at Morgan’s cross. “I have never understood the Christian fascination with objects.”

“They are not simply objects,” Morgan says. “They are objects that have come into contact with a saint or Christ, Himself. Can you imagine it? Christ’s body touched this. Our Lord and Savior’s flesh rested upon this wood.”

“And by touching Christ, the object has gained power?”

“You have witnessed the power of this cross, Zhuri. You have seen evil turn away from it.”

Not even Tristan can argue. We have all seen the power of Morgan’s relic.

“And there are many relics?” Zhuri asks.

“There are. I have seen dozens of them in churches and cathedrals. An iron nail that was used in Christ’s crucifixion. A phial containing the breast milk of the Virgin Mary. The finger bone of Saint Benedict. The head of Saint John the Baptist. Every church must have a relic before it can be consecrated.”

“Which of John the Baptist’s heads did you see?” Tristan asks. “There are two, aren’t there?”

“The one in France is a fake,” Morgan growls.

“Maybe there is one John the Baptist head for each Pope,” Tristan says. “And if you don’t mind my saying, Christ must have been absolutely studded upon that cross. I have seen at least fifteen nails that were said to have been used in his crucifixion.”

“I pity you, Tristan,” Morgan replies. “You will never know the warmth and the strength that comes with true faith.”

“All I need is the warmth of a woman’s body,” he replies. “And the strength of her legs around my waist.”

“Your ceaseless mockery hides a fearful heart,” Morgan replies.

We walk in silence for a time, and I think of Elizabeth. She owns a relic—a brush once owned by Saint Agatha, who was imprisoned in a brothel. I chided Elizabeth once, telling her it never belonged to Agatha, that it was just a whore’s ancient brush. She chided back, asking me how I know what a whore’s brush looks like. So I reminded her that we both watched John of Gaunt’s wife brush her hair once. She feigned indignation at my insolence, but she could not hide her smile. I think about that smile now, a hundred miles from home, and I cannot help but smile too.

Morgan holds the cross in his fingers and breaks the silence. “When I am back home, I will have a beautiful reliquary made for this.”

“Reliquary?” Zhuri asks.

Morgan nods. “A case built to house artifacts like this one. Usually made from precious metals.”

“Artifacts s
uch as
this one,” Zhuri replies.

Morgan does not acknowledge the correction. “Often the shape of the reliquary indicates what is inside. For this cross, I will make a case of gilded gold, in the form of a crucifix. I have seen all manner of shapes for reliquaries. If someone possesses a saint’s toe, then the reliquary might be shaped like a foot. A skull might be housed in a case shaped like the saint’s head. Do you see?”

Zhuri nods. “I have seen such things.”

“Morgan?” Tristan says.

“What is it?” Morgan snaps.

“What shape was the reliquary that held Mary’s breast milk?”

Chapter 32

Clouds march across the sky as we continue our journey to Stowmarket. We find a wagon trail leading westward and I decide to follow it. No doubt it will take us where we want to go, and I do not think anyone but Henry’s men will be near.

It takes another two hours to reach the outskirts of the town, where we see the first of Henry Bolingbroke’s perimeter forces. A dozen men in brigandine sit around a pair of cooking fires, the steel squares sewn into their jerkins almost black in the cloudy afternoon. Some of the men wear the Duke of Hereford’s livery. Henry is Richard’s cousin, so the two men share almost identical coats of arms—lions and fleurs-de-lis. The only difference of note is that Richard’s coat of arms bears a cross, while Henry’s does not. It is a heraldic irony, because Henry is the more devout of the two.

The men pick up spears and long axes from the grass and rise slowly when they see us. We meet on the road. One man, clean shaven and straight-shouldered, glances at the cannon jutting from my shoulder sack. “Are you Richard’s men?” he asks.

“We’re Richard’s enemies,” I reply. “And we need to speak with Henry Bolingbroke.”

He glances past me as I speak and his face brightens. “Tristan! Tristan of Rye!”

Tristan steps forward and smiles. “John Langham. I was hoping you were dead.”

They grasp hands as John laughs. “I’ll live long enough to see you get what you deserve, you caitiff.”

“Justice,” Pantaleon mutters.

“What brings you to East Anglia, John?” Tristan asks. “Did the reeves chase you out of Sussex?”

“No, sir. Henry Bolingbroke did. Thousands of men have joined him. He’s going to bring order to England. King Richard has abandoned God. And so God has abandoned England. But Henry, he’s got the Lord’s ear. Christ wants him to be king.”

“Did you hear that, Morgan?” Tristan says. “Henry Bolingbroke has the Lord’s ear. I wonder if he keeps it in a reliquary made of wax?”

 “Where can we find Henry?” I say. “It’s urgent that we speak with him.”

John Langham points westward down the road. “Half-mile down the road, in town.”

“Thank you.” I brush past him. The others rush to keep up with me.

“Farewell, John.” Tristan grins at the soldier. “A word of warning, I’m going to kill you the next time I see you.”

“A word of warning,” John shouts back, “Henry will probably kill you first.”

Stowmarket is a sprawling town, nestled against a forest and bordered on two sides by rivers. I know that one of the rivers is called the Gipping. I do not know the name of the other, and I do not care to know it. Richard is marching toward Elizabeth, and my only concern is finding horses so I reach her first.

“Can you imagine that?” Tristan says. “An army following little Henry Bolingbroke. Who would have imagined such a thing?”

“You do not think he should lead an army?” Zhuri asks. “Is he a bad man?”

“Not bad at all,” Tristan replies. “Nice enough lad, and a fierce fighter. But he’s pious and boring and a little dour. A bit like Morgan, really.”

“Men will follow anyone,” I say.

Morgan looks at me, then at Tristan. “I can’t tell if I’m being insulted by one or both of you.”

“We find the army.” Pantaleon points ahead of us, toward a field beside the Gipping.

Hundreds of tents and pavilions are set up just outside of the town. But no one moves among them. Not a single soldier, priest or farmer.

“We have found their camp,” Tristan says. “Still no sign of an army.”

I search the field as we walk closer but cannot see a soul.

“What did that soldier mean when he said Henry would probably kill you first?” Morgan asks, his voice soft, almost reverential.

“He was trying to show wit,” Tristan replies. “But you need to have wit if you are to show it.”

“Maybe he . . . Maybe . . .” Morgan stares at the empty field and shrugs.

“I hope you’re not implying that Henry Bolingbroke and his army are plagued,” Tristan replies.

“You said you’d seen a plaguer bishop,” Morgan snaps. “Hugh the Baptist, that was his name, wasn’t it? So why couldn’t there be a plaguer duke?”

“Stop talking foolishness,” I reply. The scent of roasting meat drifts in the air. A good sign. I have yet to meet a plaguer that cooks its food. Although, the meat does not smell very appetizing.