Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) (30 page)

I am not certain of what he said, but I believe he has called Zhuri an idiot. Perhaps he has called all of us idiots. And perhaps he is right. I should have kept the glass bottle with me until I could set it down in the girl’s workshop.

Tristan runs into the cottage and clatters around. He returns with a ceramic jar to hold the recovered fluids.

The bottle of dragon blood would have filled four tankards to the brim. What we recover from the stones and soil of Stowmarket is less than half a mug. I want to roar. I want to howl. I want to tear down the daub walls and curse everyone around me. But I cannot. Because Josalyn sobs at my side.

“It’s fine,” I grunt. “We can . . .” I do not know what
we can
, so I brush dirt from my palm. “It’s fine.”

Tristan holds the jar in one hand and a bloodstained stone in the other. He shakes the stone so that a drop of blood falls into the jar.

Morgan squats so that he can meet Josalyn’s gaze. “How can you not be an alchemist? They were about to hang you!”

“And the Church
never
hangs people without reason.” Tristan’s voice is more sober than I have heard it in a long time. His eyes do not stray from the jar of dragon blood in his hands.

Josalyn turns her trembling face upward and sniffs. “They hung my father,” she says. “They said he was an alchemist, but he was an apothecary.”

The two soldiers glance toward her and grin. One mumbles, “Of course he was.”

“They hung him.” Tears glimmer in her eyes.

Zhuri pats her back awkwardly and does not correct her English.

He must truly be smitten.

“He mixed a paste that the plague victims do not like,” she adds. “He could walk among the afflicted with the paste on his arms and they would not come near him. And they hung him for it. They said he was a servant of the Devil!”

Tristan and I exchange a look. “Do you have any of this paste left?” Tristan asks.

She shakes her head. “He made only one batch of it. He would have made more. It was very simple to make. Flour, fish-oil and red lichen. But the lichen is difficult to find. He would have found more of it. I know he would have. But they hung him!” She spits toward the two soldiers who escorted us to her home. “He was trying to help, and they murdered him!”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Why do they think you’re an alchemist?” I turn to the two soldiers. “Why were you hanging this girl if she’s not an alchemist?” My voice rings across the desolate town. I take deep breaths to settle the rising tide of rage.

“She . . . she was practicing alchemy,” one of them says. “And sorcery.”

I look to the girl.

“My . . . my . . . father taught me a little.”

“How little?” I ask, edging toward her. “Can you do what we are asking? Can you make this cure?”

The girl stares at her bare feet and is silent for a time. When she looks up, her eyes shimmer with tears again, and behind those tears is something else. Terror. The poor girl is terrified. And I think it is me who frightens her the most.

“I can try.”

The rage drains. I draw a deep breath. “Course you can. That’s all we’re asking. Just try. No one will think worse of you if you can’t do it.”

No one except Henry Bolingbroke, who will snap her neck.

Why did I think this girl could make the cure? The alchemist at St. Benet’s spent months in his workshop—toiling day and night—and could not do it. How can a girl, who looks as if she has yet to see her fifteenth year, succeed? I gaze at the jar in Tristan’s hands.

Because she has something the alchemist did not
.

“Try. That’s all we’re asking. Just try.” I force a grin. “Unfortunately, I don’t think we’ll make a great difference either way. How many cures can we possibly mix with such a small jar of dragon blood?”

Josalyn sniffs and looks at the jar. She closes her eyes for a long time, and when she opens them she wrinkles her nose and shrugs. “Twenty-five thousand?”

Tristan scoffs. “What?”

“Twenty-five thousand. Maybe a little less. The numbers are difficult to reckon.”

“Don’t speak rubbish,” I say. Her lips quiver and I take three deep breaths. “I didn’t mean that. Please tell me why you believe we can make twenty-five thousand cures.”

“It’s not rubbish.” She rubs at her eyes. There is a hint of petulance in her voice. “That jar measures one gill, and the blood is nearly to the top. There are four hundred and fifty grains in a gill. The ampoule you gave me comes from a large batch of this cure. I know that because it contains dragon blood equal to a fiftieth part of a grain, and no one could measure out such a small amount. So if there is one fiftieth of a grain of dragon blood in each dose, and we have four hundred and fifty grains of dragon blood, that means we can create twenty-five thousand cures. A little less, I think.” She shrugs. “The numbers are difficult, so perhaps I am wrong.”

“You say he taught you
a little
?” The humor is back in Tristan’s voice.

“Absolutely beautiful,” Zhuri says.

Josalyn glances at Zhuri, then looks away, blushing.

“Why would you assume that the ampoules contain a fiftieth part of a grain of blood?” I ask.

She holds out her hand. “Show it to me, my lord.”

I draw the extra cure from my pouch and place it in her palm. She holds it close to her eyes and rolls the ampoule. “There.” She holds it up to me. “See the circle and dot? Next to the words for dragon blood?”

“Stop playing games, girl,” Morgan says. “That writing is Arabic. How could you know the words for dragon blood in Arabic?”

“I don’t,” she replies. “But I know the word blood. And it only appears on the ampoule once. I’m better with Arabic numbers than letters, but I know some words. My father made me learn a little of the language so I could help. Most of the best writings on alch . . . ah . . . medicines come from the Muslims.”

“I could teach you to read in Arabic.” Zhuri averts his eyes when she looks toward him. “If . . . if you wanted.”

Josalyn rubs a strand of her hair between thumb and forefinger. “I would like that. Very much.”

I wave my hand between them. “You are saying that we can cure twenty-five thousand people with a gill of dragon blood?”

She smiles at Zhuri and blushes, turns to face me. “A little less I think. But yes.”

Twenty-five thousand is more than I ever dreamed we could cure. And yet, all I can think about are the tens of thousands that will not be cured because of our mistake.

We held life in our hands
.

I let my gaze fall upon the shards of broken glass among the white stones and close my eyes when I cannot bear to look anymore.

Chapter 36

Zhuri decides to stay with Josalyn. He tells me he will travel with Lord Henry’s army and rejoin us at St. Edmund’s.

“Her father has many papers in Arabic and Hebrew,” he says. “She may need to consult them and I am the only one who speaks those languages. I want nothing more than to continue my journey with you, but I must make this sacrifice. For the cure. For England and for Spain.”

It is a good pretense. I almost believe him.

We leave him with the girl and her two guards, in the spice seller’s cottage, and return to the church. The three Italian soldiers follow, chattering to Pantaleon.

Henry Bolingbroke waits in the churchyard, a gaggle of priests fluttering and squawking around him. Four chestnut palfreys have been saddled and hitched to the gate that borders the church.

The priests grow silent when we approach. I spot Father Benjamin among the white-robed clergy. He sneers in a most unchristian manner and I turn the other cheek of my arse to him as I push in beside Henry.

“I had them pack salted cod and dried hare in the saddlebags,” the duke says. “And two skins of wine.”

I nod my thanks. “You have done much for me, Lord Henry. And yet, I will ask one more favor, if I may.”

Henry crosses his arms and nods for me to continue.

“An enemy waits for me at St. Edmund’s Bury,” I say.

“I thought you could beat Richard there if I gave you horses,” he replies.

“Another enemy,” I say. “A knight with a small army. He has vowed to kill me.”

“Is there anyone in England who does not want you dead, Sir Edward?”

I scratch at my chin and smile. “There’s an archer and his wife, in Norfolk.” My smile fades. “But they might want to kill me too.”

I think about the bowman in the mill, the one who helped us escape Sir Gerald. I wonder if the cure I left healed their son or turned him into a monster. Life or death. Heaven or Hell. The world forever hinges on two opposite outcomes. And now, my journey hinges on Lord Henry’s answer to my next request. “I could use some men. Two hundred would likely be enough.”

The duke studies me for a time. Father Benjamin whispers something and Henry nods.

“I’m sorry Edward,” he says. “I am in a difficult position. The king banished me, and I was not supposed to return for another eight years. Many would think me unlawful for returning, and for raising an army.” He looks into my eyes. “You don’t think I’m being unlawful, do you, Edward?”

“No,” I reply. “I think you are trying to save your nobility, and to help England recover from this affliction.”

He smiles broadly, claps my shoulder. “I’m pleased you see it that way. Sadly, the only way to prove my intent is to offer no strife. To anyone.”

Father Benjamin crosses himself. “The last thing the duke needs is to have his men slaughtering other knights,” he hisses. “If he chooses to attack the licentious King Richard, he is justified. Otherwise, we shall raise arms against no one. This is a mission of peace.”

“A mission of peace?” Tristan barks back. “You’re leaving smoldering piles of plaguers in your wake. Hanged men and women dot the countryside like wind chimes because of your
peaceful
mission.”

“Heretics and demons must be destroyed,” the priest replies. “If it was up to me, you and—”

“Enough!” Henry snaps. “Just stop it. Both of you.” He turns to face me. “I cannot send men from my army to fight other Englishmen, Edward. I am sorry.”

A silence settles as I consider my next argument, and in that silence, Pantaleon and the Italians laugh.

 One of the men shouts, “
Avreste dovuto vedere la sua faccia
!” The five kinsmen burst into laughter again.

Henry points at Pantaleon. “Is he your man?”

I shrug. “I’m not sure. I think he’s just traveling with us.”

“But he speaks Italian?”

“Many Italians do.” The disappointment makes me surly.

Father Benjamin scowls at me.

Henry nods curtly. “I think I may have a solution to your problem.”

There are ten Italians in Henry’s camp—the remnants of a mercenary company that left France with the duke. They wear brigandine armor—knee-length leather jerkins sewn with overlapping metal plates—and white, padded tunics with the red cross of Saint George upon them. Steel greaves and lobstered metal shoes protect their legs.

I have faced such men in battle many times. Genoese crossbowmen. Once, these soldiers were considered the most dangerous warriors in Europe. Companies of these men can unleash a hail of deadly shafts from three hundred paces—a hail that burns through men, and punches through metal as easily as flesh.

“Those crossbows will make quick work of Gerald,” Zhuri says.

“Terrible weapons,” Morgan adds. “Do you know the Church once outlawed crossbows? The Pope felt the wounds they caused were too hideous. ‘Hateful to God and unfit for Christians.’ That’s what he said.”

“They weren’t so hateful or unfit during the Crusades,” Tristan adds. “The Pope was quite happy to let our Crusaders use them against Muslims.”

“That is because we are irrelevant,” Zhuri replies.

“I never said that,” Morgan replies.

Tristan smirks. “So, are you calling these Genoese soldiers hateful to God, Morgan?”

“I won’t take part in a conversation where my words are constantly twisted.”

I walk down the line of crossbowmen, inspecting them as the others continue to prattle.

Our armies were terrified of the Genoese for decades. Until the Black Prince fought a battle in a place called Crecy. On that rainy day, wet bowstrings and poor tactics by the French rendered the Italians ineffective to the point of disaster. And, on that blessed day, the English archers, with their six-foot war bows, emerged as the most feared soldiers in Europe.

The French hold such a fear of our archers, now, that they cut off the first two fingers of every captured English bowman. This ensures that our men will never draw a bow again. It is a custom that does not sit well on our side of the Channel. Whenever French and English armies meet for battle, our archers hold up two fingers, nails out, to show they are still capable of putting an ash shaft through a French heart. The gesture has become the worst of insults.

I study the Italians standing in two ranks before me. They may not be English archers, and there may only be ten of them, but Genoese crossbowmen are a great asset.

“If only we had another fifty,” I murmur.