Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) (31 page)

Tristan nods. “And if only we could understand them.”

None of the crossbowmen speak a word of English. Their commander knew our language, but he is dead now, or wandering mindlessly across East Anglia. Pantaleon will have to translate between us, which is only slightly better than not being able to communicate with them at all.

“How much does the paid come upon me?” Pantaleon asks.

“You can keep the horse,” I reply. “That’ll be your
paid
for translating.”

“I gave the arse to the horse,” he replies.

“
Ass
,” Morgan corrects. “
For
. You gave the ass
for
the horse.”

“A donkey isn’t worth a palfrey,” I reply. “That horse is worth three donkeys. Are we truly going to argue about payment? Will you never do something simply because it’s honorable?”

“I fight with you,” Pantaleon says. “I make the
Italiano
into the English. I bring friends of you from the danger. Many things, I do. The honor is the good on you. The paid is the good on me. And none give me the paid.” He shakes his head. “I do not get the justice.”

“Get used to it,” Tristan says. “None of us gets the justice. Not a bloody one of us.”

Henry provides horses for all of the crossbowmen, but makes me swear that I will return every one of his animals when his army reaches St. Edmund’s Bury.

Apologies, Pantaleon
.

I nod my agreement, thank Lord Henry for his help, and we chase the dying sun out of Stowmarket.

Twenty miles separate me from Elizabeth. Twenty miles, two hundred men, and an army of plaguers. But I have the Virgin Mary guiding my way, and some of the fiercest soldiers in Europe at my back.

The clouds tumble away from the setting sun as we ride, and one of the fiercest soldiers in Europe shreds the silence by shrieking like a woman set aflame. The cry is so loud and so full of terror that Morgan’s horse rears. Tristan and I draw our swords and whirl our palfreys.

“What is it?” I spin my horse again, eyes darting to the horizon and back. The Italians stare at me blankly. “
What is it
?”

A tall crossbowmen shrugs, points to a soldier with brown hair, and rattles off a stream of Italian.

“What’s he saying?”

Pantaleon speaks with the tall man.

“He is saying the man, Tarviccio, he do that sometime.”

 “He does what?” I ask.

“He lifts the voice.”

“He screams?”

Pantaleon nods. “Yes. He screams.”

I look at Tarviccio. A thin man with a long nose, slouching in the saddle. He flashes a nervous smile and waves.

“Why? Why does he scream?”

“It is not known.” Pantaleon shrugs and nods toward the tall soldier. “The man there has the name of Frederico Longobucco. He say Tarviccio not make large problem, eh? He scream sometime. Is simple.”

“We’re trying to sneak past hundreds of men who want to kill us,” Tristan snaps. “I think it might make a large bloody problem,
eh
?”

Pantaleon speaks with Frederico Longobucco and they both nod. “Frederico, he say you not have worry. Tarviccio not does it many time. Very rare.”

I sheathe my sword, glance at Tristan, and drive heels into my palfrey’s flanks. Tarviccio could not have become a member of an elite class of warriors if he screamed often. It is an annoyance, but if it rarely happens I will not worry about it.

My company moves forward again, rumbling across the shallow hills of Suffolk. The sky is a fiery orange, the land beneath it a honey gold. Stalks of foxglove wave in the breeze, like rows of purple church bells, and another of Tarviccio’s shrieks rings out across the plains.

Chapter 37

I am not certain how best to approach St. Edmund’s Bury. The fastest path would be to follow the wagon road straight to the city’s east gate. Or to travel overland until we reach the Sudbury road, which knifes northward to the city’s southern gate. But Sir Gerald’s men will be watching. It does not matter from which gate we enter, we will be spotted a mile or more from the city.

If we somehow find a way to get past Sir Gerald, it will be a simple matter to enter the monastery. A tunnel beneath the prior’s chamber extends out to the banks of the River Lark. It is how Tristan and I entered and left last time, and it is the only way I can get to Elizabeth.

I break my horse’s canter and let her walk for a time as I think.

“We’ll keep going westward,” I say finally. “I want to stay off the main highways to the city.”

“If we continue west, we’ll hit the Sudbury road, Edward,” Tristan replies. “The one we took into the city last time. And Gerald will have men all over that road.”

“We’ll stop before we reach it,” I reply. “I’ll send up scouts and get a measure of Gerald’s defenses before committing.”

Tristan and Morgan look to one another. I know they are concerned about our chances. Gerald could have two hundred men or more around the city. I have no plan. No idea. The only certainty I have is that two hundred men are not enough to keep me from Elizabeth. But my friends should not have to take such a risk.

“Tristan, Morgan,” I say. “I cannot make any guarantees about our safety from this point. We may well be riding toward our deaths. I release you of any obligation you have to me. If you wish to return to Sussex, I will think no less of you.”

“I do wish to return to Sussex,” Tristan replies. “So let’s hurry up and rescue Elizabeth.”

Morgan nods. “I pity Gerald’s men if they try to stop us.”

I know I should try harder to make them leave, but I cannot keep the smile from my face. I could not find two better friends in all the world.

“I pity them too,” Tristan says. “They’ll be washing our blood and brains from their armor for weeks.”

“And think how sore their arms will be from all that mashing and hacking,” Morgan adds.

Tristan raises his hands as if warding off phantom blows. “No, please, no more hacking! No more mashing. Mercy! Mercy!”

Morgan laughs and slumps in his saddle, as if dead.

I stare at the sky and shake my head. I could not find two more irritating friends in all the world.

I try to gauge the character and emotional state of the Genoese as we ride. It is difficult to inventory men you cannot speak with, so I ask Pantaleon about them. They all hold the same basic rank, but it is Frederico Longobucco who took over the command when their sergeant was killed by plaguers. He is tall with dark hair and green eyes. Sharp-eyed and pragmatic, but with a quick smile that tells me there is far more to him than discipline.

Frederico’s opposite is a man named Rigi Coraggio, who is thick-shouldered and stubble-faced. Rigi, or Rizio as the others call him, possesses a rugged handsomeness. He grins perpetually, and the men never fail to return the expression. Pantaleon tells me that Rizio is famed for his inhuman ability to drink.

Joseph Magazzi is the shortest of the crossbowmen, and the best shot. I am told that he can hit a coin at fifty paces, but I will have to see proof of this to believe such a boast.

There is also Nicolo Barezzio—called Magnus by the others. A hulking giant who makes an eighteen-hand draft horse look like a pony. The man’s shoulders are like sandstone blocks, his neck an oaken stump. On his back sits a colossal siege crossbow—a weapon that is normally set upon supports and fired from castle walls. A siege crossbow can send a narrow tipped bolt through two knights in full armor. And when using the square-headed bolts—the ones meant for striking concussive blows against armor—the weapon can launch knights from their saddles as if ropes had yanked them backward.

I have never seen a man fire a siege crossbow without supports, but I have no doubt Magnus has the power to do so.

Pantaleon speaks about each of remaining men, adding his own insights and opinions. Antonio lo Grato is thin with murky blonde hair and is, apparently, quite witty. Domenico is fidgety and sweats, and is the most devout of the crossbowmen. Ermolao is thick in every sense of the word. Thick fingers, thick features, and not the brightest of the lot. Francisco is so fat that the brigandine armor he wears had to be cut vertically at intervals so it would fit around him. Zilio is quiet, and Tarviccio … Tarviccio screams.

They are an odd bunch, but they follow Frederico’s commands unswervingly and seem to know their weapons well.

They will have to be enough.

We ride until the molten disk of the sun touches the treetops of a distant forest and sets them ablaze with oranges and yellows. To our left, down a shallow bank, is a tall barn and a stone cottage. A half-dozen men and women gather outside the door. Twenty or thirty shorn sheep mill near a stream, a stone’s throw from them.

I goad my horse toward them.

“Edward,” Tristan calls. “There are people down there. People have not been kind to us.”

“We need to know how far we are from the Sudbury road,” I say. “And we’ve got ten Genoese crossbowmen with us. I think we can deal with just about anything we encounter.”

Tristan and the others trot to catch up with me. “Have you been on the same journey I have?” Tristan asks. “I would like it known that I think this is a bad idea.”

As often as I have been amongst men, I have returned less a man
. Father Peter’s words come back to me, but I wave Tristan off. The day I fear six unarmed commoners is the day I give up my spurs. I ride down the slope.

“Are you here for the miracle of Mother Mary?” A man calls to me. He wears a thick traveling cloak and holds a crude wooden cross in one hand.

“We just need to know how far we are from the Sudbury road.” An understanding of his words comes to me. “Did you say the miracle of Mother Mary?”

The door to the cottage opens and a thick-chested man with a beard that hangs to his stomach steps outside. “Greetings, I’m Alyn,” he says. “Orderly row, please. If you want to see the miracle, have your two shillings ready.”

“What miracle are you selling?” I ask.

The man smiles at me, but the grin fades when he sees my companions. He holds his hands up. “I don’t want no trouble, lord. You and your men can see it for free.”

I look to the west. We will lose daylight in an hour. But the Virgin has been my guide and protector throughout this journey. Perhaps this is a message. I smile at the thought. Two weeks ago, I was laughing at Morgan for telling me that Saint Giles had spoken to him. “Show us quickly, Alyn.”

We leave the horses with Tarviccio and the rest of us follow the bearded man toward the stream.

“You lot stay there,” Alyn calls to the gathered pilgrims. “I’ll be back shortly.”

“What does the Virgin have to do with this?” I ask.

“You’ll see, m’lord.” The man picks his way through the mewing sheep. He lays his hands on them, studying each as he passes them. “There it is.” He wraps his arm around one of the ewes and lifts her tail high. “Have a look there, under her tail. It’s the image of our blessed Mother Mary, so it is.”

Morgan’s breath is a hiss. “Blasphemer! How dare you! How dare you demean the Virgin by suggesting that her image is on . . . the arse of a . . . of a . . .” His eyes widen. He points silently and falls to his knees. “Sweet angel of mercy. Lord of our Heaven. It’s the Virgin Mary!”

I look at the sheep’s arse, and I cannot deny the image.

Her face is directly below the tail. A pink circle with wisps of dark tan around it, like hair beneath a hood. Two small discolorations form perfect eyes. Faint lines of darker pink suggest the curve of her mouth. Her shawl and the arms of her robe billow downward, formed by swooping streaks of nearly white skin.

“
Dio onnipotente
!
Un miracolo
!” One of the Italians—Domenico I think—falls to his knees and covers his face with his hands. “
Un miracolo
!”

“I have no argument,” Tristan says. “That’s the Virgin Mary. On the arse of a bloody sheep.”

“Mind your language, Tristan,” Morgan mumbles.

Tristan opens his mouth to offer a retort, but his words die when he looks at Morgan. “Are you . . . are you crying?” He stoops to have a better look but Morgan turns his face away. “You’re crying!”

“Of course I’m crying,” Morgan snaps. “We are in the presence of divinity. The Holy Spirit has touched me. I have never seen a more sacred sight.”

“It’s a sheep’s arse.” Tristan replies. “An ewe’s anus has moved you to tears, Morgan.”

“And that’s why I will ascend to the Kingdom of Heaven, and you will not, Tristan. Because you see an arse, and I see the Mother of God.”

Tristan does his best, but he cannot keep from laughing.

“If that arse is the Mother of God,” Tristan says, “it must have been quite a bowel movement.”

I do not know what to think of this miracle, except that perhaps the Virgin Mary is chiding me. She did this once before, when she guided me to a horse that was a cow.

“How have you kept these sheep alive?” I ask. “Does the Virgin protect them from the plague?”

“No, my lord,” the bearded man replies. “We . . .” He trails off and rubs dirt from his hands. “No, my lord.”