Emaculum (The Scourge Book 3) (35 page)

The moon dangles in the black sky, looking just as battered as my helm. Staring up makes me dizzy, so I look ahead into the Suffolk night, and think of Elizabeth. I will see her tonight. I will feel her arms around me, and listen to her voice again.

We wave to Alison and Alyn and ride up what is perhaps the only steep hill in Suffolk. The dark makes our pace slower than I would like, but faster than we would be on foot.

“Edward,” Morgan calls. “Frederico is pointing to his saddlebag and saying things. Does
lanterna
mean lantern?”

“I hope so,” I call back. “Tell him to bring it up here.”

Morgan speaks loud English to Frederico, who speaks loud Italian back to him. Pantaleon will be missed for
many, many reason
.

I draw my horse to a halt and wave Frederico forward. We may not be able to speak to one another, but we must be able to communicate.

Frederico rides to my side. “
Devo una lanterna
.” He reaches into his saddlebag and draws out a lantern, hands it to me. “
Lanterna
.”

I point to it. “Lantern.”

He looks at the object in my hand, then back at me. “Lahn-tern.”

I nod, point to the weapon that dangles from his saddle. “Crossbow.”

He slaps the weapon. “
Balestra
.”

“
Balestra
,” I repeat.

“Craws bow,” he says.

I pretend to hold a crossbow to my shoulder and make a motion as if I am depressing the long trigger at the base of the stock. “Fire!”

Frederico unhooks the crossbow, holds it to his shoulder and presses the trigger. The head of the crossbow rises, as if it had discharged. “
Sparare
!”

I make the same motion again. “
Sparare
!”

He presses the trigger. “Fire!”

“That’s hardly useful.” Tristan squeezes his horse between the Italian’s and mine. “Teach him what he’s likely to hear.” He pretends to fire a crossbow, holds up a finger. “Kill the hairless carrot farmers!”

“Stop it, Tristan,” I say. “You’ll confuse him.”

Frederico pretends to fire the crossbow again. “Kill de haress carrot farehmers.”

“Hairless carrot farmers,” Tristan repeats. “Kill the hairless carrot famers.”

“Kill de hairless carrot farmers,” Frederico says.

“That’s it.” Tristan grins, then pumps his arms as if he is running, looks back with wide eyes, as if being chased. “Flee! Flee for your lives!”

Frederico grins and mimics Tristan’s gestures. “Flee! Flee foh you lives!”

“Since you’re so enthusiastic, Tristan,” I say, “why don’t you take charge of training the Italians? But I want it done properly. I need them to understand my commands. Normal commands. Not this rubbish.”

“Of course.” Tristan’s face is too sober for me to feel confident, but I know he will not endanger us. He will have his fun, but he’ll make certain the Italians are capable of understanding me.

The two of them slow their pace so the other crossbowmen can catch up, and Tristan begins his lessons.

I sprinkle saltpeter on the lantern wick and dig out a flint and lighting-iron from my saddlebag. It takes three strikes to get a strong enough spark. The lantern flares to life and the dark burns away in a small circle around me. I will have to blow out the light when we approach the road, lest we announce our presence to Sir Gerald before we are ready.

Alison with one L told me that her cottage is less than eight miles from St. Edmund’s Bury. If this is true, then Elizabeth is not much more than an hour away. My heart pounds. I remember the feel of her long fingers entwined in mine. They are always cool, her fingers, and the touch of them on my fiery skin never fails to soothe me. She is the cool breeze in summer. She is the ocean spray on a ship’s sun-baked deck. She is the wet cloth upon my feverish forehead, and she is so close now that I can almost smell her scent, lemons and strawberries.

The lantern light flickers among gorse and daisies. Has it been a month since my journey began? I feel like I have traveled for an eternity, trapped in a purgatory of endless setbacks. But not even limbo is forever. There is light in the darkness, and my Judgment Day has arrived.

I wave Morgan over.

“We’re going to take the Sudbury road north,” I say. “The south gate is the closest to the River Lark, and the hidden tunnel.”

“If Gerald and his men are here, they’ll have someone at the gatehouse,” Morgan replies.

“I’m certain of it,” I reply.

Somewhere behind us Tristan enunciates for the Italians: “Sir Gerald.”

The Italians recite as one, their accents thick. “Iffa you hava cannon pointed atta Sir Gerald, do notta let him a’go.” Some of the crossbowmen laugh. They do not understand what they are saying, but they know it is amusing. I think about shouting at Tristan, but that will only tell him that he has succeeded in annoying me.

Morgan pulls at the tabard on his chest. “You think the three cocks will get us past the guards?”

 “I’m hoping so,” I reply.

“And what if they decide to bring us to Sir Gerald?”

“If we are taken to Gerald, I will put up a bloody uproar while you flee for your life.”

“You know that won’t happen, Edward. I won’t leave your side.”

Tristan’s voice rises behind us again. “Fire the cannons!”

“Hallelujah!” The Italians shout back.

“Tristan, keep them quiet!” My own shout makes my head throb.

Morgan sighs. “You really want Tristan in charge of the Italians?”

“It didn’t seem like a bad idea at the time,” I mutter. “Morgan, if it looks like we are going to be taken to Gerald, I need you to promise that you will run. You and Tristan, both.”

“I can’t speak for Tristan, but I won’t make that promise.”

I think about Pantaleon di Alessandria.

Is Heaven divided into countries? Do the Italians have their own kingdom there? If by some miracle Pantaleon and I both find ourselves in Heaven, I will take an ark or a winged camel or whatever I must to visit him. I will drink with the Italian, and we will argue about honor and justice and payment, and laugh for eternities.

“Morgan, if I am caught, I need you and Tristan to finish this. I need the two of you to cure Elizabeth and bring her home.”

Tristan’s voice rises from behind us again. “Morgan is a leper.”

“Morgan issa leper,” The Italians repeat.

“I’m not a leper!” Morgan shouts back. “Don’t teach them that rubbish!”

“You’re only encouraging him.” I wait until he looks into my eyes again. “I need your oath, Morgan. I need to know that you and Tristan will finish this if I can’t.”

Morgan is silent for a long moment, then nods. “Very well, Edward.”

He holds out his hand and I place one of my hands over it and one under.

“I swear, upon God, and the . . . the King of England . . .”

“You can skip that part,” I say, smiling.

“I swear, upon God, Saint Giles, and the Virgin Mary, that if anything happens to you, I will not rest until Elizabeth is cured and home, or I am dead.”

“I accept your oath, Morgan.”

We push farther, through the long pastures of Suffolk. Tristan continues his ridiculous schooling of the Italians.

“Do not taunt bald men!” he shouts.

“Or God willa kill us with bears,” the Genoese reply.

I glance at Morgan. He will do whatever he can to help me. He will die for my Elizabeth, if he has to, even though I killed his Matilda.

A cloud passes over the moon, blotting out the fields of Suffolk.

Morgan had a wife once. Margaret. She was killed by plaguers, and Morgan mourned her. But Margaret was his dead brother’s wife. His marriage to her was one of duty. Matilda was something else. Matilda was his Eden, and we destroyed her.

 “Morgan . . .” I clear my throat and start again. “Morgan, I can’t convey to you the extent of my sorrow for . . . for what happened to Matilda. My soul weeps for what we did.”

He turns his face away from me and does not speak for a time. The moon escapes the clouds again and washes the landscape in silver. When he finally replies, Morgan’s voice is low, but steady.

“If we seek ways to fault ourselves, we will always find them. The true measure of fault is intent. Someone I respect very much once said that.”

I remember those words. I spoke them to Zhuri when he blamed himself for Morgan’s affliction.

“Our intent was to give Matilda peace,” Morgan says. “To send her to God. We can’t fault ourselves for what we didn’t know. All we can do is wait to see her again, after this life.” He turns to me and flashes a sad smile. “If I am killed trying to save your wife, I will see my Matilda and my Margaret. And if I live, you will see your Elizabeth. It is a victory, either way.”

The breeze picks up, I think, because my eyes suddenly sting. “Morgan—”

A dozen trumpets shriek out across the heaths, echoing beneath waxing Suffolk moon.

And the words die on my tongue.

Chapter 43

“What the bloody riot was that?” Morgan gains control of his horse, which spooked at the trumpets and skittered a dozen paces ahead.

I blow out the lantern and stare northward, the direction from which the instruments sounded. “Gerald likes horns, but that sounds like too many even for him.”

Tristan’s horse clumps to our side.

Morgan stares into the darkness uneasily. “You don’t think . . . ?”

I shake my head. “There’s no way Richard could have gotten here so quickly.”

But there is a way. He could have left with his men in the afternoon, and marched them at full speed, without rest, leaving wagons with equipment and food to travel behind at a slower pace. His soldiers would be exhausted and hungry, but they could make it.

But if it is Richard and his men, not even a forced march will give him victory. Because they are still more than a mile behind us, from the sound of the horns. We will beat him to St. Edmund’s Bury. And if we ride fast, we will have time to heal Elizabeth and flee to the South before his army enters the town gates.

My heart thunders again at the thought of Elizabeth. I think about the Good Queen Anne, and about the scampering abomination in the alchemist’s cellar. Elizabeth will not suffer that fate. I know she won’t. But I cannot banish from my mind the mad laughter of the alchemist’s wife. I cannot purge the image of that hairless, withered thing she had become.

My life and salvation now hinge on two opposite outcomes. I shall live in eternal bliss, or I shall die and face never-ending torment. Because if Elizabeth becomes a monster, I will see her off to Heaven and then send myself to Hell.

I hand Tristan the dead lantern. “Stay here with the Italians. I’m going to find out what that clamor is about. Morgan, do you feel up to galloping?”

“No,” he says with a smile. “But my horse does.”

We gallop.

Our steeds fly through the dark pastures. It is dangerous to ride so quickly. Rabbit holes or large stones can bring a miserable end to such rides. But if Richard is near, we are out of time.

I spot a distant glow after half a mile, as if the horizon is on fire. We slow to a canter and, after another half mile, I glean distant signs of movement. The faint flickers of marching soldiers seen through hedges. They are on the western road, the one that leads to St. Edmund’s Bury.

The land swells to the north of the approaching army, so Morgan and I cross the road swiftly and canter up the rise. We hide beside juniper bushes and gaze down at the western road until the army comes into view.

“Sweet Heaven above,” Morgan murmurs.

The army has grown.

More than two hundred mounted men lead the long column. One of every twenty or thirty holds a lantern. And behind the horsemen, in an endless stream, march thousands of slouched, heavy-stepped footmen. It is hard to get an accurate count at night, but I would say three thousand at least. Possibly thirty-five hundred. If this is Richard’s force, then he has gained men on his journey. Knights and soldiers joining their king.

Dozens of banners fly above the marching men, but I only need to look at the first pennant to find my answer: Fleur-de-lis and lions.

It is Richard.

We are out of time.

“Go! Ride! Ride for St. Edmund’s Bury!” Tristan and the Italians watch me, eyes wide, as I gallop toward them. “Ride!”

Morgan and I roar past, heading southwest toward the Sudbury road. I glance back to see the others slamming calves against flanks, lashing reins and chasing after us.

Tristan raises his sword in the air as his palfrey takes flight, and calls to the Italians: “I am your leader!”

The Italians respond with a ringing warcry: “So sayeth de Lord!”

Thunder rolls across the Suffolk heath as my companions spur their steeds into a gallop. We shake the earth, hooves battering the earth like falling castle walls. Our horses rumble onto the Sudbury road like a flood crashing through a valley. I see very little in front of me, and pray my horse does not turn a hoof. Every step is potential catastrophe. My breath comes in shallow gasps, the reins dig against my palm, through the leather of my gauntlet. But in spite of the terror, laughter rises in me.